


Winchester Circus & Its Fantastical Fallen Angel

by BlazeEBlake



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, American Civil War, Castiel's Family is awful, Dean Winchester Has Abandonment Issues, Family Don't End in Blood, Fluff and Angst, Former soldier Castiel, Happy Ending, I'm Bad At Tagging, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Less than period typical homophobia because screw that, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Civil War, Protective Balthazar (Supernatural), Protective Sam Winchester, Ringmaster Dean, Self-Esteem Issues, Trapeze Artist Castiel, but angsty, shameless quoting of canon text, the angst is brief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-02 06:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeEBlake/pseuds/BlazeEBlake
Summary: For nearly a decade Castiel has strayed further and further from home, doing his best to drive himself to distraction from what awaits upon his return. When a circus comes to town, he sees little more than another temporary means of escape. At least, until he lays eyes upon the troupe's handsome ringmaster.Dean Winchester has learned to trust little and expect even less from life as he struggles to keep his family's traveling circus afloat, so the sudden appearance of a wild eyed stranger looking for work has him both wary and certain of it being little more than a passing fancy. But as time passes and bonds are forged, Dean is forced to confront old wounds and new feelings for the enigmatic Castiel Novak.





	1. Lining Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! This story has been a long time coming, even before the DCHR 2018 gave me a home for it, as well as the drive to push through and actually make it happen. That said, between life and NaNoWriMo, this took a lot more time than I wanted. Hopefully, you all will find that it was worth the wait. I want to thank my sister for saving my life and beta-ing, as well as the DCHR community for their patience. Enjoy!

The circus had come to town three days ago and set up on the outskirts of the city. From the moment he had heard of its arrival, Castiel knew he was going to come here, to this makeshift collection of booths, tents and lanterns, of raucous clamberings and the promise of the wondrous sights just behind striped canvas walls. Perhaps it was the stark contrast between the usual drudgery he had long grown accustomed to, but there was a sense of something magical here, something electric and alive. Unfortunately, his companion didn’t seem to share in his excitement.

‘Honestly Cassie, if I wanted to subject myself to a unique blend of body odor and what I can only pray is animal feces,” Balthazar moaned, “We could have at least picked a wrong side of the tracks closer to home.” Castiel rolled his eyes, his smile only slightly waning.

“You’re fixating upon all the wrong aspects of this, Bal!” he cried, “Underneath your first impressions, there’s popcorn and candy floss! And if you would bother to look at anything besides down your nose, you would see fortune tellers, jugglers, just so much--” He cut himself off, demonstratively sweeping a hand across the path ahead of them. 

“My apologies that it doesn’t smell of lavender and caviar,” he added, “But there’s a good time to be had if you’ll only let yourself, brother.” He fixed him with a hopeful, if not somewhat pleading, look and the man lasted an admirable handful of seconds before giving in with a fond shake of his head.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, lifting his palms in surrender, “But only because you had to spend all day shopping with mother and the light’s only just come back into your eyes.” Grin returning in full force, Castiel linked arms with his brother and started dragging him forward. 

“If any misfortune befalls my new boots, there will be hell to pay,” Balthazar warned as they drew up to the largest tent.

“If you were so worried,” Castiel argued, lining them up in the short que that had formed in front of the entrance, “You shouldn’t have worn them.”

“Just because you like to dress down doesn’t mean we all should,” he countered, “And anyway, I wouldn’t have if you’d been forthcoming about where we were going.”

“As I recall, I had no intention of bringing anyone along in the first place.”

“I wouldn’t have known, with how terribly obvious you were about sneaking around. You may have had everyone else fooled, but to a seasoned scoundrel such as myself you were wholly transparent, even before I caught you trying to secret yourself away in a carriage.”

“I still don’t see what any of that has to do with you joining me. After all, it’s not as though I need looking after. I’m far from fragile, Bal, and this is nowhere near the most dangerous place I’ve traveled.” Balthazar scoffed and opened his mouth to launch into what was sure to be a contrary reply, but was cut off by their reaching the front of the line and the young man stationed there. 

“Welcome to the Winchester Family Circus, gentlemen,” he greeted as Castiel handed over their tickets, “Enjoy the show!” Without further preamble, he swept aside a section of heavy, woven fabric and ushered them inside. Castiel was immediately struck with how vast the interior of the tent seemed. It had been large from the outside, but from within it somehow managed to be grander, with even more lanterns lining its rigging and billowing cloth ceiling, rapidly filling bleachers curving against the walls, tall wooden poles that stretched from opposite ends of a broad ring set into the floor to the narrow platforms of a trapeze--

“That,” Balthazar cut in firmly, tugging him out of the way of a group that had entered behind them, “It’s that look right there that has me chasing after you.”

“What look?” Castiel challenged, retaking control and leading the pair of them to the center bench of the nearest riser. 

“That mooney-eyed one you get,” he explained, heaving a put upon sigh as they lowered into their seats, “The one that shows up when you happen upon some new flight of fancy and well, take flight. Or disappear, as it often happens, to those more dangerous places you so blithely mentioned.”

“I don’t disappear--”

“India this past year, with that mad bird man?”

“Ornithologist, and I wired as often as I could. The conditions--”

“China, learning from that troupe of wanderers?”

“They were craftsmen as much as anyone else, don’t be rude. And I wrote everyday. It isn’t my fault the letters were lost.”

“That dreadful mountaineering trip in the Alps?”

“That was… Truly unfortunate.” Castiel frowned, simultaneous recalling and trying to shove away remembrances of that particularly grim incident and all that had led up to it.

“And,” Balthazar pressed, easily catching upon what he had hoped to leave unsaid, “That isn’t even taking years prior to that disaster into account. Where you deemed it nothing short of necessary to--

“Your point?” Castiel butted in.

“My point, brother dearest,” Balthazar elucidated, “is that as your best and most favorite sibling,  _ and _ constant witness to your travails, I’ve every right to both worry and see to it that your wanderlust doesn’t kill or ruin you as it so often almost does. Of course I don’t want you to be miserable, as I know you unfailingly are when forced to sit too still or live amongst the family’s snobbery--   
“You aren’t a snob,” Castiel contested gently.

“Of course I am,” he dismissed, “I take great pains to remain so. What I mean to say is, the last thing I want is to see you hurt again, and so as well as I can, I’ll endeavor to look after you.” He offered him an exasperated but loving smile, one that Castiel was in the midst of returning when the room went dark, save for the beam of a limelight against a set of curtains at the opposite end of the enclosure. 

A drumroll sounded from somewhere above them, building to a crescendo until a lanky man in baggy, patchwork clothes tumbled out to the edge of the ring. With a jubilant hop, the man rose to his feet and presented himself, hat in his hands and beaming through a smearing greasepaint that served as an imitation of rough stubble. Several members of the audience clapped and whistled, but most remained silent, clearly waiting for the something more than a tramp to appear. 

“Please tell me we came out to see more than just this,” Balthazar muttered snidely.

“Hush,” Castiel whispered. 

Confusion flickering across his face, the lone man allowed his arms to droop for a moment before dropping his hat onto his head and throwing them out again, this time with a wider, toothier grin. When he received less fanfare and even a few heckling ‘boos,’ his face pinched into a frown and he set his hands onto his hips . Shaking his head, he glanced over his shoulder and some form of realization appeared to dawn on the tramp, one that had him holding up a finger and darting back toward the drapery he had fallen out of. With a final, bashful smile, he took hold of the curtain’s edge and swept it aside with a flourish, revealing the rest of his fellow performers. 

Amidst a renewed flaring of lights and applause that the one-man introduction was unable to inspire on its own, the troupe flooded out around the ring, marching and, in at least one instance, flipping into position. Once they had all seemingly taken their places, the tramp stepped up to a platform at the center of the floor, only to be shooed away and supplanted by another man in a top hat and bright red tailcoat who had somehow managed to sneak in during the procession. Unlike the vagabond that had come out ahead of him, his handsome features were unmarred by any type of theatrical makeup, and his smile was purposefully charming rather than clownishly cheerful. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he boomed, sweeping his arms out wide, “Welcome to the Winchester Family Circus! I’m D.W., your host for the evening, and boy have we got a show for you! Tonight, we’re gonna give you your fill of dazzling delights, daring do’s, and don’t try this at homes! So tell me, are ya ready?” The crowd cheered their agreement, and the ringmaster’s lips pressed into a knowing smirk.

“Yes!” Balthazar called playfully as the din began to die down, “By all means, begin already!” Castiel swatted at him admonishingly but the ringmaster appeared unfazed, pleased even.

He chuckled, “I couldn't agree more, friend! So, without further ado, let’s start the things off with one of our most delightful delights! The enchanting, the enwrapped and enrapturing Eileen!” The room again darkened to a single limelight, this time fixing upon a smooth rope that had unraveled from the ceiling to the left of side of the platform, and the gentle strain of a violin filtered into the air. Stepping out from the shadows, a woman in a shimmering leotard took a firm hold of the cord and began climbing and winding her way up. Several feet from where the top of rope was secured, she began to spin, stretch, and hang, defying gravity with nothing more than her own delicate strength while the audience alternately held its breath and gasped in unison. As the music crested to its shrillest notes, the acrobat looped the cable around her legs, twisted upside down and slid in a near freefall, catching herself mere feet from the bottom with an arm reaching toward the darkness she had emerged from. The accompanying tune immediately faded beneath a cacophony of cheering and clapping that even Balthazar was unable to withstand. 

Once that too began to dissipate, a hand reached out from the blackness to clasp Eileen’s outstretched forearm and D.W. reappeared, levering himself around her in a series of graceful spins to deposit himself back upon his podium in time with the light shifting back to the ring’s center. He flashed another brilliant grin as the audience resumed its ovations, and Castiel’s pulse fluttered inexplicably faster than it had during the first act’s death-defying conclusion. 

“Castiel” Balthazar hissed, jerking beneath a grip Castiel didn’t recall placing upon his shoulder.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, releasing his brother’s arm to settle both his hands in his lap. He wasn’t sure what had come over him. His journeys abroad had provided him with enough experience to be intimately familiar with many of the feats he was likely to witness that evening. In fact, it was partly his feelings of nostalgia that had led him to the circus in the first place, so while the acrobatics were impressive, he was no stranger to the craft itself or the simple technique the ringmaster had employed. Yet here he was, blushing all the same and eternally grateful for the surrounding darkness that hid the color rising in his cheeks. 

The rest of the show progressed steadily from there, with a strong man act following the aerial display, and then a surprisingly precise and hilarious “flying” monkey performance wrangled by a woman with a bullwhip that only left her side to act as a miniature tightrope for her animals. At intermission, the troupe’s psychic, Mystic Missouri, milled about the risers and pointed out eerily accurate information about the circus-goers, much to their shock and the delight of their companions. When she turned her sharp eyes toward Castiel and declared a big change was coming, he ignored Balthazar’s troubled gaze and the chill that ran down his spine in favor of focusing on the dimming lights that signaled the start of the second act. 

“Welcome back and thanks for stickin’ with us folks!” D.W. called, stepping out from behind the main curtain to skirt around the ring’s edge, “For this next act, I’m gonna need a volunteer.” Over a dozen hands shot into the air and the tent filled with a blend of encouragements, refusals, and pleas to be chosen while the ringmaster scanned the the audience for a willing participant. As his gaze drifted in their direction, Balthazar quickly pinched the pressure point at the top of Castiel’s knee, startling him into jumping up from his seat with a yelp. He scowled down at his brother for what he could only assume to be his ill-timed and childish revenge for his earlier absent-minded squeezing, but received little more than feigned, wide eyed innocence in return.

“Now that’s enthusiasm!” D.W. exclaimed, “Come on down, sir!” A sinking feeling in his stomach, Castiel looked up and found both the crowd and the man staring squarely at him.

“Oh” he began, shaking his head apologetically, “I didn’t--”

“Don’t be shy,” the ringmaster interrupted, “All the things that bite’ve been put away.” The people around him laughed at the gentle ribbing, but Castiel continued to hesitate, frozen in place by this unexpected involvement and the sudden attention of the individual who had captured his own for the better part of the evening. 

“I promise,” D.W. pressed, “I won’t so much as harm a thread on that spotless suit of yours.” He lifted his chin, beckoning him forward with a flick of his hand, and while a part of Castiel knew he was fully capable of further declining, it wasn't enough to override the odd pull he felt toward the call. Perhaps it was a new symptom of his ever-present dissatisfaction, a strange kind of exhibitionist desire borne of boredom and his bygone tactics of abating it, or maybe it was the enigmatic man making the offer in the first place. In either case, he knew he would not be reclaiming his seat in the immediate future.

Sighing, he threw one final glare at his traitorous brother and then made his way down from the benches, bolstered along the way by a few encouraging words and unnecessary pats across the back. Upon finally reaching the dirt floor, Castiel accepted D.W.’s outstretched hand and a smile that was just a touch softer than his earlier expressions. Between that and the brilliant green eyes he had failed to notice at a distance, it was all he could do to return the gesture without any of the odd gawking he felt himself tending toward. 

“Ladies and gentleman,” D.W. proceeded, all the while steering him toward a more central position in front of the audience, “I’m not a magician or even what someone might call an illusionist. No, what I am is good with my hands.” He paused to wiggle his eyebrows at a nearby row of seats, garnering a fair share of giggles from the young ladies seated there. “For example,” he went on, turning back to Castiel, “My friend, Mr…?” 

“Oh, uh Novak,” he replied unsteadily, “Castiel Novak.”

“Alright then, Cas,” D.W. nodded, “Got anything small a fella could borrow? A coin, a watch, or a fountain pen even? Purely for demonstration's sake, of course.” As it just so happened Castiel had all of those items on his person, but as he reached into his waistcoat to retrieve them, his pockets were unquestionably empty. Frowning, he began patting himself down in search of his missing possessions. 

“Oh!” the ringmaster exclaimed, “I forgot, I've already got 'em!” Reaching into his own coat, D.W. pulled out each of the objects and with several intricate passes over his knuckles returned them one by one to a wide-eyed Castiel. A modest wave of applause rose up from the crowd, only to soon descend into muffled tittering with the return of the tramp, who now carried a burlap rucksack.

“Right on time, Garth,” D.W. beamed, collecting the bag and returning the salute his companion offered as he jogged away haphazardly, “Next, we’re gonna take my hands on approach and apply it to something even trickier. Think you're up for that, Cas?”

“I suppose so,” Castiel deadpanned, “Provided we continue to leave the handiwork to you.” After all, he'd never had occasion to practice any sleight of hand.

“Ha! Good man,” D.W. chuckled along with the audience, handing the satchel over to him and taking several steps back, “On my signal, all you have to do is start tossing me things from that bag, one after the other, just like how I gave you back what was yours but with a little more oompf than ostentation. Once they're all gone, just keep the bag open, nice and wide. Can you handle that?” Castiel nodded and took a firm grasp of the first of what felt like many oddly shaped items. He lifted his gaze to the man in front of him and they locked eyes, sharing a charged moment that crackled between them until D.W. tilted his head ever so slightly to begin the exchange. Before long, the bag was empty and D.W. was juggling all manner of items above his head, leaving Castiel to marvel at him along with the rest of the audience. Again, this was a trick he was more than familiar with, but something in the way this man performed it had him seeing it through a fresher, brighter lens. 

After what seemed to be far too short a time, the ringmaster stepped into his space and allowed the objects to drop back into the bag in the order they had been thrown, drawing yet another round of audible appreciation.

“Great job, Cas,” D.W. crowed over the noise, “Just perfect. Now, I don't know about you, but after all that hard work, I need a minute. Care for a seat?” He gestured to Castiel’s left and when he turned he found that two chairs had been set down beside them while they had been occupied, each balanced precariously on their rear legs. Without batting an eye, D.W. strode over to the rightmost seat and lowered into it as if it wasn't one wrong move away from toppling. He raised an eyebrow in equal measures challenge and invitation, and Castiel took the obvious bait. He was certain that, similar to the first display, this was a show of skill partially at his expense. However in this instance he was confident enough in his understanding of both the trick and his own abilities to have something of a safeguard against the brunt of the planned embarrassment. 

As directed, he attempted to mirror the ringmaster’s repose, and much to his expectation the chair tipped him backward the moment he settled into it. Relying on disused instinct, Castiel leaned into the fall and raised his arms to catch his weight, landing in a steady handstand just behind the overturned furniture. After a brief hold, he righted himself and turned toward D.W., who had risen from his balanced seat to fix him with a curious stare. Castiel raised his own eyebrow in return, and the barest hint of a smirk twitched at the corner of the other man’s lips as he surged forward, grabbed his arm and raised it up in triumph.

“Let’s give our talented volunteer a hand!” he commanded, showman’s smile firmly back in place, and the crowd responded accordingly. While his fellow attendees were still clapping out their appreciation, D.W. offered him a second handshake and pointed him back toward the bleachers with a parting wink. A strange but pleasant elation clung to his insides as he wended his way back to his brother, one that he knew without a doubt was only fractionally due to the reaction of the audience. 

“That was rather brilliant, Cassie,” Balthazar greeted once he was reseated beside him, “It appears all your fearsome scowling was misplaced afterall.” Castiel managed only a dazed hum in reply, and for the remainder of the show, he felt as if he was hovering just outside of his surroundings. If asked, he would have been unable to describe the acts that followed in any great detail, not the tap-dancing twin act, not the firebreather, not even the spectacular knife throwing finale that closed out the evening. For all the offered splendor, Castiel’s mind was filled with nothing beyond the sensation of rightness that had briefly fallen over him when putting his old talents to use, the rush that had flashed through him when those green eyes had sparkled back at him, and hastily formed notions of finding a way to ensure his experience with both wasn’t simultaneously the first and last time. 


	2. Ready

Bidding the audience goodnight, Dean dashed out of the ring and past the curtains facing it to the attached enclosure that served as a backstage area. His troupe, performers and staff alike, were already assembled in a loose huddle, and when they turned to him he greeted them with a genuine, though tight lipped smile. 

“Great work tonight, everyone,” he said, “At least, it looked that way from where I was standing. Bobby? How’d we do?” 

“Far as I can tell,” his gruff operations manager called from somewhere to his right, “Well enough to keep on goin’. Might even be able to afford to feed most a ya.”

“Hey,” Max called, “If Jo throws those knives of hers any closer to Sam's head we can just add him to Benny's gumbo!”

“Not sure I ever heard of a one that called for moose, cher,” Benny pondered aloud.

“You know,” Jo shot back, “If you’d like an up close demonstration of just how accurate I can be, I'd be happy to give you one, free of charge, Maxie.”

“Alright, alright,” Dean broke in, “Quit picking at each other and go get cleaned up and packed. We gotta be broken down and headed for the train by 9 AM sharp, and I don't want to hear any gripin’ and groanin’ about somebody not getting their beauty sleep.” Still lightheartedly sniping at one another, the group filed out of the main tent to head toward the encampment at the edge of the grounds, leaving him alone with a couple that was too entrenched in a hushed argument to have minded their dismissal.

“Eileen,” Sam reasoned, “I’m not saying you shouldn’t have done it. You were amazing, as usual. I just wished you had told me that tonight was the night you were putting the death drop in. I mean--”

“Samuel,” the petite woman interrupted, “I’ve watched you get actual weapons thrown at your head, almost since the day we met. I know you worry, but I’m as capable as you are.”

“I know,” he insisted, “And I never said that you weren’t, but tonight, I just, I suppose I just wish I’d had a chance to prepare for my heart to jump into my throat.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. Honestly, I never meant to scare you.”

“OK, you two,” Dean interjected, ushering them outside, “Time for bed. I most definitely will not accept a lovers quarrel as a reason for either of you being bone tired in the morning. Anyway, Sam, Eileen’s right, as usual.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side?” Sam complained as the three of them stepped into the open air, “You’re  _ my _ brother, after all.”

“Yeah, well,” Dean shrugged, “Make it easier to take your side and I will. Maybe don’t try to go up against someone that’s had you beat from the start.” Eileen laughed and rapidly signed something at Sam that made his brother blush.

“It’s times like these that I’m glad my sign language is lousy,” Dean snorted, “Now, in all seriousness, get to bed, and maybe find some time to actually sleep, you sinners.” He clapped his brother on the back and started off toward his own tent, silently chuckling at Sam’s stammering protests. Once he at last reached his temporary quarters and was within the privacy of it's thin canvas walls, Dean tossed his jacket over the dwelling’s only chair and slumped down to his cot, letting out a breath he felt he’d been holding in all evening. 

He had been the head of the Winchester Family Circus for nearly seven years now, longer if he counted all the time he’d spent picking up his father’s slack, and somehow it never felt easier. Sure, he had the benefit of support from the likes of Bobby, his brother, and the rest of the crew, and there was still some passing enjoyment to be had in seeing them all do what they did well, but he also had the weight of their livelihoods and the entire operation on his shoulders. So far, they were keeping afloat, and if their last few shows were any indication they were on track for a decent enough season, but he was certain he would never reach a point where he wasn’t ready for the other shoe to drop, for something to take a surprise turn and rip the rug right out from under him. Furthering his near constant unease was the fact that, for all his grinning and posturing, he was never fully comfortable with all the attention that came with being a ringleader, and had simply taken it up to fill one of the many positions his father’s alcoholism and subsequent death had left vacant. Although, even if he didn’t mind the over-bright glow of the limelight and the multi-eyed scrutiny it drew, he would probably always find smiling a chore when stepping into the ring so often felt like walking into the family mausoleum. 

“Why so glum, chum?” a familiar and far too chipper voice asked. 

“Charles,” he scolded, tilting a weak frown toward the redhead in his doorway, “What have we said about knocking?”

“That it’s impossible to knock on fabric?” she answered brightly, striding into the shelter to sit beside him on the mattress.

“I assume you’re here to gloat?” 

“Only partly and not in so many words.” She fluttered her lashes at him innocently, and Dean couldn’t help but let out a huff of laughter as he rolled his eyes.

“Charles Bradbury,” he proclaimed with teasing reluctance, “Your new lighting apparatuses were as perfect as you said they would be. Your limelights are brighter and prettier than all the rest and you are a credit to the performing world that none of us deserve in the slightest. Happy?”

“Very,” she said, “But I didn’t come solely for the well deserved praise.”

“Oh?” he replied. 

“You have a fan who would very much like to see you.” Dean sighed and fell back against his bed, dramatically throwing one arm over his eyes. 

“Lemme guess,” he challenged, “Some cocky bastard who wants to show me how he’s got my act all figured out-- Or wait! Better yet, some lovesick lunatic like that girl who chased Sam halfway around the country until Eileen showed up and set her straight?”

“Wrong and wrong, my cheery friend,” she chirped, “And I’ll remind you that not everyone who visits after a show is a fool or a psychotic.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he vollied back calmly, “I remember one woman just last year who rushed at me with all kinds of mad ideas about our show’s production before I even had time to clear the ring. We got to talking and the next thing I knew it she’d stowed away with my circus and the hearts of most of my performers.” He lifted his forearm to peer at her mischievously and was a fraction of a moment too slow to dodge the pillow she picked up and threw at his face.

“You should be so lucky that someone even remotely like me should find their way to you,” she sniffed haughtily. All joking aside, she couldn’t be any more correct. Though their initial meeting had been nothing short of an ambush, Charlie had quickly become an irreplaceable part of his life, lending her genius technical expertise to his professional pursuits and her kind, nurturing instincts to his sparse personal life. She was a much needed rock in his often unsteady existence and she asked little more in return than a place to sleep, her paltry salary, and a chance to meddle every now and again. At this moment, it looked as though she was calling in her right to tinker with his affairs, and while she had more than earned it, he wasn’t going to pretend to be any less bullheaded about it.

“I won’t argue with you there,” he conceded, shoving the pillow aside and pushing up onto his elbows, “But since I highly doubt such a person even exists, I don’t see why I should put off a good night’s rest for the sake of whoever it really is.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to figure that out for yourself,” she concluded, bouncing off the cot and bounding out of the tent.

“Hang on!” he called after her, all but jumping to his feet, “Charlie!” When it quickly became clear that she had no intention of heeding his objections, Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, facing away from the exit with a quiet curse. It wasn’t often that any member of the audience wanted to meet with anyone outside of the main talent, and Dean very much preferred it that way. Charlie was well aware of this preference, perhaps better than most, so he wasn’t sure what had come over her so strongly as to warrant her insistence that he honor this stranger’s request. 

The soft shuffle of approaching footsteps interrupted his frustrated contemplation and he hastily smoothed his features in preparation for the meeting his friend was forcing upon him. Turning back toward the opening of the tent, he readied a perfunctory introduction that died on his tongue the moment he laid eyes upon the visitor standing just inside the dim lamplight of his lodgings. 

“Hello,” Castiel rumbled, his deep blue gaze somehow penetrating and shy all at once. The man had been a rare spot of brightness in a night otherwise darkened by his burdened mind. In the all too brief moments of his participation and unexpected show of dexterity, Dean had been put far back enough on his heels to remember a time when the circus was more enjoyment than anxiety for him. Of course, once he had directed the gentleman back to his seat, he had shoved such thoughts aside in favor of focusing on his duties to the rest of the show, and with the knowledge that the encounter was no more than a fleeting thing for the both of them. Apparently, circumstance and the pushy redhead that often manipulated it had other plans.

“Hello yourself,” he returned warmly, “Please, don’t just stand out in the cold! Step into my office.” 

“It’s actually a rather mild evening,” Castiel reassured earnestly as he moved past the threshold, “But then again -- oh, wait, you meant that as a figure of speech, didn’t you?”

“As a matter of fact I did, Cas,” agreed with a sly grin, “It being May and all. By the way, I hope you don’t mind me calling you that. Sorry about not asking before, but at the time it was just easier. You know, with the crowd and all.”

“It’s quite alright, Mr, uh, D--”

“Dean works just fine. D.W.’s just for the show, and I don’t think anyone’s ever called me mister.”

“Alright then, Dean. And, would I be correct in assuming, the W stands for Winchester?” Dean nodded, carefully leaning against the tent’s central support post. 

“Used to throw the ‘Winchester” out there,” he explained, “But it sounded a lot more official than what I was going for. The other way’s friendlier, keeps me from coming off like a bigshot.” 

“That’s rather interesting,” Castiel mused, casually surveying his scant surroundings, “A ringmaster looking to keep a low profile.”

“I mean,” he shrugged, “My job is really just to point folks toward the talent. No need to pull focus for ego’s sake. Would you care for a seat? I promise, this one sits on all four legs.” He motioned toward the chair he had dropped his coat onto and Castiel accepted the seat without so much as a flicker of mistrust, in spite of his reassurances being nothing more than the word of a stranger who specialized in fast talking. It was a silly, useless gesture, and yet there was something in it that Dean found oddly endearing. More likely than not, it was a symptom of his rapidly waning energy.

“Speaking of chairs,” he resumed, once the man was settled, “You mind if I ask you where you learned that little stunt you pulled?”

“The handstand?” Castiel queried, his mild tone better suited to asking after the weather than discussing acrobatic feats. 

“Yeah, Cas” Dean coaxed, not bothering to hide his amusement, “No offense, but your stint as a juggler’s assistant just wasn’t as compelling.” Castiel laughed, lips pulling back into a gummy smile that lit up his already striking features. In the beat it took his guest to compose himself, Dean was caught up in an unintentionally prolonged bout of staring, one he had to quickly shake out of and rationalize as yet another sign he would soon need to retire to his bed.

“Several years ago,” Castiel recounted once his laughter had subsided, “I had occasion to travel and was presented with an opportunity to train with a troupe of variety artists.”

“You don’t say,” Dean said blithely, crossing his arms over his chest, “And where exactly did you find such an opportunity?” 

“China,” Castiel supplied, brows lifting as if the answer was nothing short of simple.

“Right, of course, China. I mean, obviously. So, uh, that all they teach you out there or do you have a few more parlour tricks in your arsenal?”

“It’s been some time since I’ve had cause to put it to use, but in addition to the basic pose, I was taught rudimentary contortions, one-handed balancing, and how walk while inverted. I’ve also had some experience with aerial performance, though that was something I picked up in France.” Dean let out a low whistle and gave the man an appraising once-over. Outside of his windswept hair, he didn’t look the globe-trotting, adventurer type, nor did his average dress and manner suggest the type of wealth required for such casual, long-distance travel. However, there was no denying he had at least some of the skills he claimed, and Dean had yet to detect anything in his narrative that rang false.

“I’ll say one thing,” he remarked, “You sure did surprise the hell outta me with the stunt you pulled. Word to the wise, most other ringmasters won’t cotton to that kind of shock.”

“My apologies,” Castiel said, the amusement draining from his face, “It was not my intention to upstage you in anyway. I only meant to save myself some of the insult and injury the display likely entailed.”

“Hey, no,” Dean reassured, “I didn’t mean it like that. And, really, good on ya for lookin' out for yourself. I was just offering a little friendly advice, ya know? I mean, I thought it was damned impressive, but other guys might not feel the same way.”

“If it at all assuages your concerns, I have no plans to attempt such a stunt anywhere else.”

“Oh, well then, yeah. Concerns, uh, assuaged and no harm done.” Castiel nodded, some of his earlier ease visibly returning to his expression and the set of his shoulders. 

“May I... ask  _ you _ a question?” he ventured, pinning him with yet another fathomless stare. 

“Sure,” Dean agreed, uncrossing his hands and shoving them into his pockets, “I’m an open book.”

“I noticed,” he began, “That your tent had a trapeze, but there wasn’t any sort of high flying act. Is there a particular reason why?” Dean blinked, lips parting in poorly hidden surprise. Of course he would ask about the one thing he under no circumstances wanted to discuss.

“No particular reason, no,” he sniffed, shaking his head and hoping to sound even moderately indifferent, “We just haven’t had a capable enough performer since we… Parted ways with the last one.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, and was as close as Dean was going to get to the truth any time soon.

“I see,” Castiel intoned thoughtfully, “ And, you wouldn’t count your aerialist as capable? Or yourself even? I only saw a glimpse of your abilities in tonight’s show but your level of control certainly suggested prior training.”

“That’s very kind of you Cas,” he drawled, forcing back a nonsensical blush, “But no. Eileen’s strictly about the rope tricks and I--I’m an amateur at best.” That was even farther from the facts of the matter, and there was no longer any question in his mind; he needed to close out their conversation and get to bed lest he made a fool of himself. 

“I believe,” Castiel continued, “I disagree with that assessment, but I won’t argue. In any case…” He paused, pursing his lips as if considering something very intently, or warring with his own thoughts.

“In any case…?” Dean repeated after a moment, “What?”

“Would you consider,” he soldiered forward, shoulders tensing once more, “Taking on someone with the required skill set? More specifically… Me?” 

An incredulous laugh burbled up from his chest, nearly choking back his words, “You-- you’re telling me you wanna run away to the circus, Cas? My circus?” He had to hand it to Charlie: this was certainly the last thing he’d been expecting.

“Not run away exactly,” Castiel clarified, rising from his seat, “More like, join up. Work for you, rather.”

“Listen, Cas,” he counseled, laying a hand on the other man’s shoulder, “I appreciate the enthusiasm, as much as I did when I met you earlier tonight, and it's been nice talkin’ to you, really. But contrary to popular belief, the circus ain't all fun and games.”

“I’m well aware,” he maintained, “The individuals I trained with often set me to odd jobs and menial labor.”

“Thing is, we leave Maine tomorrow, bright and early so--”

“I can be back here at dawn if your itinerary requires it.”

“What about your friends, your family?”

“Not an issue.”

“Alright, but even then, even if I said yes, I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to pay y--”

“All I will require is a place to stay and the occasional meal, provided I earn my keep.”

“Cas--”

“Dean… Please. All I ask is one chance.” They fell into a heavy silence, gazes locked together in wordless struggle that neither man showed any signs of backing away from. Eventually though, the determined, heartfelt plea in Castiel’s eyes and his all too recent memory of the feelings the man had enlivened in their brief collaboration began to wear at him. Against all notion of his well honed common sense, a selfish part of him wanted to say yes, to agree to the request so that he could reap the benefits of the emotional highs it could very well bring. It was mad, stupid even, but for the first time in a long time, something he wanted, trifling as it was, was within reach, and after a minute that seemed to stretch far beyond its true measure, Dean gave in to it entirely.

“We’re out of here and headed to the train station by 8AM sharp,” he relented, lifting his hand from Castiel's shoulder to point at him sternly, “No exceptions, not for anything or anyone.”

“Understood,” Castiel replied, sober expression at odds with the excitement shining in his eyes.

“And,” Dean warned, though with less heat than he intended, “If you can’t hack it to my satisfaction, you’re out and back on the next train home on your dime.”

“Of course, Dean.”

“Of course he says. Perfect. Now, if it’s alright with you, I need at least four hours if I’m gonna be of any kind of use in the morning.”    
“Oh, yes! I-- I suppose I should be on my way as well.” With that, Castiel took his hand in both of his and gave it a hearty shake.

“You won't regret this, Dean,” he assured, “Mark my words.” Briefly tightening his grip, he released him to hurry out the tent, swiftly disappearing into the night. Alone once more, Dean turned to his bed and flopped down upon it with a groan, only turning his hasty agreement over in his head for the barest of moments before throwing it off in favor of sleep. The way he saw it, there was more than a fair chance the blue-eyed man would come to his senses and forget all about running away with his family of cast offs and misfits. Castiel was a rare man, to be sure, and possibly one who was no stranger to a less than standard way of life, but he also appeared to be a man with a choice. It was nice to dream and pretend, but no one with a choice really wanted any part in the kind life he led. More than that, although he couldn't quite put a reason to any of it, something about Castiel made him feel good and in his experience nothing like that was built to last.


	3. First

It was still dark when Castiel threw off his covers and set about making his final preparations to depart. In spite of the fatigue he had claimed in order to immediately retire to his rooms, he had hardly slept in the hours following his and Balthazar’s return from the circus, and by all logic would have been exhausted were it not for the persistent excitement buzzing beneath his skin. This would not be the first, farthest, or even most harrowing of his travels, yet he could already feel in his very being that it was weightier and far more significant than his past voyages abroad. Maybe it was that, for the first time it felt as though he had a plan of action, and would be doing far more than wandering toward whatever diversion best grabbed him, or that the plan itself felt more like an actual escape than a respite. Or maybe it was the promise of the company he would keep, of green eyes and a roguish smile that sparked something strange and terrifying within him that he had scarcely felt for anyone let alone--

He shook himself out of these wayward musings to focus upon quickly washing up and dressing in the articles he had laid out the night before. No sense in getting caught in frenzied flights of fancy when he had a real locomotive to catch.

Most of what had been deemed essential out of his overabundance of belongings were already packed, save for the toiletries he required to make himself presentable for the new day. By his estimation, he wouldn’t need much more than a few changes of clothes and a book or two to keep him occupied during the first leg of his journey, provided he made it that far at all. There was, of course, still the matter of impressing his way into the employment that would give meaning and reason to the entire venture.

Hastily knotting a cravat about his neck to complete his preparations, Castiel gave his room one final, cursory sweep, and upon finding nothing of import left uncollected, took hold of his meager luggage and started toward the front of the house. When he came to the foyer, he paused beside the mahogany table at its center and pulled two sealed letters he had written the evening prior from the inside pocket of his jacket. Neither recipient would be pleased with the contents, but it couldn’t be helped. He had somewhere to be and he didn’t have time for the arguments or objections that would undoubtedly arise in a face to face discussion.

“Am I no better than mother now, Cassie?” his brother’s voice questioned. Envelopes still clutched in his hand, Castiel looked up and found Balthazar leaning against the newel post at the foot of the stairs, fully dressed in spite of the early hour. 

“I will admit,” Castiel began, brow creasing, “I had no intention of waking you.”

“Yes,” Balthazar returned, crossing his arms, “I surmised as much. Only you keep forgetting that I know you, baby brother, and would recognize that haze of adventure-seeking hanging over you in even the blackest of nights. Although, I will say, this is impressively inventive, running off to the bloody circus I mean.”

“Not running off, exactly,” he argued softly, “And I have yet to formally earn my place among the troupe.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you’ll pass whatever test they’ve got with flying colors, at which point there’ll be even less of a chance of you turning back. Not that there’s much of one now…” He raised an eyebrow, twisting his previous statement into an unspoken question, and Castiel shook his head. Sighing, Balthazar shook his head, dropped his hands and did an abrupt about-face to begin climbing the steps.

“I--I’m sorry,” he stammered, taking a step toward his retreating sibling, “Wait--” His protests fell away as Balthazar knelt beside the bend of the first floor landing’s bannister, and rose with a suitcase of his own.

“I don't understand,” Castiel resumed, squinting at the luggage, “You want to… Join me?”

“After a fashion, yes,” his brother explained, descending the staircase at a languid pace “This is the first time in your storied history of disappearances that I’ve been present to fully witness both the ignition of your urge to escape and the escape itself. As it stands I’m in perfect position to look after you.”

“By joining the circus?” Castiel inserted doubtfully.

“Heavens no. My aim is protect you from yourself, but I am by no means on a mission of self sacrifice. You do your austere tumbling and I’ll keep a watchful eye, to a point that is. If you’re expecting me to bunk down in whatever big-top encampment your merry band chooses to rest their heads, you’ve lost yours. I’ll likely be slumming it as, straying from the likes of Astor House, or--.” Castiel cut him off with a fierce, one armed hug that had them both fighting for balance as their respective luggage knocked together.

“Thank you,” he said, as softly as his intended earnesty would allow.

“Oh Cassie,” Balthazar chuckled, “No need to grow sentimental this late in life. After all, it isn’t as if we’re marching off to war… again, anyway.”

“It means as much now as it did then,” Castiel replied. Balthazar scoffed and gently extricated himself from the embrace.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” he chided, “Come on, I assume time is of the essence, given your early rising--Oh, and do put those dreary missives of yours away. We’re going to use what I’ve written.”

“What you’ve written?” Castiel repeated, glancing down at the now crumpled letters still clutched in his hands.

“Yes,” he said, drawing a folded piece of paper from his waistcoat and dropping it on the table, “In anticipation of your brand of excuses and ‘beg your pardons’ being ill-suited to our needs.”

“Bal, this isn’t the first time I’ve written to mother in advance of my travels.”

“No, but it is the first time you’re journeying well within her means and reach. Your way, we’ll be found out and bombarded with her scandalized hysterics in less than half a fortnight.”

“My way? You don’t even know what I wrote.”

“No, but I can guess. Checking up on family business with Michael and Raph? Visiting Gabriel in Versailles? Assisting Anna in her missionary work? Some other such nonsense that will come undone the moment she recalls how you haven’t a single care for business, or missionary work, or that none of us know where Gabriel is until he drops in himself, hm?” He concluded with a pointed look, which Castiel met with a tight-lipped frown before tucking his rumpled correspondence away.

“Brilliant,” his brother grinned, stepping past him to start toward the front door “Let’s be on our way.”

“We’ll need to hire a carriage,” Castiel murmured as he followed, “Much like last night, I hadn’t planned on your accompanying me.”

“Give me a bit more credit than that” Balthazar scolded as he threw open the door, “It’s not as though I planned on riding the handlebars of your bicycle like some school girl. Our transportation’s already waiting. Now hurry. We wouldn’t want to be late for your... Job interview, as it were.” He winked and stepped into the cool, predawn air, leaving Castiel to shake his head and follow him to what-- and who-- awaited at the circus grounds.

* * *

As had been his habit since adolescence, Dean rose before dawn, taking the first solitary moments of daylight to secure his belongings and begin breaking down his own tent. As he worked, he would every so often glance toward the main road, only to curse both himself and his stupid hopes when no one appeared.

"Lookin' for someone, boss?" Benny called out in his easy, Cajun lilt.

"Yeah," Dean returned, keeping his eyes firmly focused on his task as his friend sidled up to him, "The rest of you to be up and at 'em so we can get this show on the road. Gotta say, I’m surprised to see you already. You’re not exactly what I’d call an early bird."

"Yeah well," he replied, smirk plain in his tone, "You mother-henned me into a decent enough bedtime last night, so here I am. Anyway, you sure the crew’s all your looking for? Cuz I heard Charlie sent a visitor your way and I figured maybe they slipped out before you got a chance at a proper goodbye.

"Well you figured wrong. Anyway, it was a man--the stiff from last night that showed up, not some girl with a few wild ideas.” 

"Didn’t look too stiff to me. And all honesty, boss, places I've been and come from, that don't make much difference behind closed doors, long as all bodies is able and willing.” Dean could feel his gaze on him, not pressing or probing but resting there all the same. It was a stare he felt sometimes from a few of the others as well, like Charlie, Dorothy or Max, or even his brother to a different degree. It always came with a sense of being seen in a way that pierced through what he purposely put forth, and far deeper than he liked. It wasn’t so much about being afraid of what any of them thought they saw, particularly as it seemed it was often a case of kind recognizing kind. It was that he wondered if others less familial to him might see it as well, and that in his inadequacy at offering the most base presentation of normalcy he risked placing undue stress or risk upon all of their heads. This place wasn’t just his or his father’s to ruin anymore, and the last thing he wanted was to see lives that depended on him run aground because his eyes refused to wander in just one direction.

“Aw hell, brotha,” Benny offered apologetically, reaching for a nearby tent post to effortlessly yank it from the ground, “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, at least not enough to get ya contemplatin’ so hard a fella could near enough hear it.”

Dean sniffed and shook his head,“S’alright… But, uh, like I said, it was nothin’. Just a fella still dizzy from his time in the limelight.”

“Ah,” Benny nodded, laying down the pole to move toward another. Dean cast a sidelong glance in his direction and, taking in the thoughtful cast of his expression, endeavored to lighten the mood.

"... Still got the big tent to break down,” he said mildly, “Don’t ya think you oughtta save your strength?” 

"Right,” Benny said. “Gotta be careful of my delicate constitution." Again, Dean lifted his eyes from the canvas he was folding and when he met Benny’s gaze they both broke into an easy laughter. He had only been with them for a few years, but from the beginning Benny had never been anything short of the real deal, a genuine strong man. Winchester Family Circus may not have been the biggest outfit in the business, but Dean prided himself in having a team he could stand by in and out of the ring. 

“Why don’t you let me fuss with this?” Benny suggested once some of their humor had eased, “Let you get a headstart on hitchin’ up the wagons. It’ll give you somethin’ to do that keeps your mind a little busier while it’s not thinkin’ of, ya know, nothin’.” 

“Not a half bad idea,” Dean reasoned dryly, “Even with the backhanded shots that came with it.”

“Don’t know what you mean by that,” Benny countered, laying down another stake and reaching toward him, “All I’m doin’ with my hands is keepin’ busy.” Dean snorted, and handed him the section of tent he had bundled.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he cautioned, turning away to head deeper into the encampment.

“I’ll do my best, boss man,” Benny shot back. Dean waved him off over his shoulder and moved down the narrow lane between tents, greeting others in the process of packing up as he passed. At the end of the path where the cargo wagons were parked and the horses penned, Dean found his brother already hard at work on fastening animals to carts and doing a middling job of not looking like he was expecting him. He should have figured Benny being so up and at ‘em before sunrise was part of some kind of scheme. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Dean said, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, hey,” Sam returned in his best impression of surprise.

“Shouldn’t you be helping the missus-to-be with your tent?” he asked, stepping back to scrutinize him at arm’s length.

“Charlie and Dorothy finished theirs ages ago and offered to help with ours, so Eileen sent me to be useful elsewhere. Don’t worry though, I’ll leave Impala to you. I know how you both get.” Dean cast a brief glance toward the black appaloosa mare grazing at the far end of the pen beside them. He could argue that neither he nor the horse got any type of way, that it wasn’t his fault that the offspring of his father’s favorite horse didn’t much like anyone but him, or that there wasn’t anything wrong in giving in to her preferences for the sake of comfort and efficiency, but he wasn’t going to be so easily baited away from the matter at hand. 

“Right,” he nodded, leaning against the nearest wagon “So, you and Charlie talked this morning?” 

“Not much beyond a 'good morning’ or two,” Sam shrugged and continued tightening up the collar on one of the two horses he was readying.

“How about Benny?” Dean nudged, “You have a chance to not talk to him, too?” He was already fairly certain of the answer he would get, and not just because the Winchester stubbornness was a strong current that ran through both of them. In spite of his usual, friendly demeanor, Sam still had yet to warm to Benny in any measurable way, and seemed satisfied to keep it that way. Dean had a decent notion of its origins, some combination of brotherly jealousy, and protectiveness no doubt born of the raucous night that had led to Benny being hired in the first place. On his side of things, Benny wasn’t the type to push himself on anyone, so the stalemate remained. On any other occasion he would have taken the time to rib Sam about it, but he wasn’t after teasing out the roots of that particular acrimony; at this moment, he wanted to know just what, if anything, his brother was up to.

“Actually, yes.” Sam said, brightly, “Passed him by without so much as a grunt, as usual.”

“Still dead set on keeping things just shy of civil, huh?” Dean mused, “And here I thought between the two of us, you were the friendly one.” Sam let go of the leather straps he was fussing with and faced him with a knitted brow.

“Why the interrogation?” he asked “Are you trying to pick a fight? Or, are you honestly against letting anyone help you, even with something as simple as packing?” His expression shifted ever so slightly, turning from consternation to the kind of hurt look he had perfected as child. It was subtle, but he was laying it on thick enough to tell him that he was right in thinking his brother was up to something. Two could play at that game.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he sighed, shoving off of the cart, “I guess when you spend most of your life as a flim flam man you tend to grow a healthy paranoia. Let’s just get these gals hitched up and forget I gave  _ you  _ anything more than a good morning, deal?”

“Deal,” Sam agreed, an easy smile replacing his trumped up concern. Dean nodded again and brushed past him to head toward Impala, silently counting down the seconds as he walked.

“Although,” Sam added before Dean even got to three, “I did overhear something about you having a visitor last night.”

“I knew it,” Dean said, swiveling away from his horse to point at him accusingly, “You know, for people in show business, you all sure are lousy at getting your act together.”

“W-what?” Sam sputtered, “That’s not-- You said it yourself, you’re paranoid. All I did was ask a question and--”

“Will you quit trying to pull the wool over my eyes and just get to why you and the others are suddenly so concerned with my social life that you had to lure me into conversation?” Sam gaped at him for a beat, jaw dropped in a fair attempt at indignation, only to abandon the play when Dean’s own stony expression remained. 

“Alright, fine,” he relented, dropping his half-finished preparations to face him head on, “But we aren’t conspiring against you, Dean. We just thought it would be nice if you, you know, met someone.”

“Mighty kind of you” Dean tossed back brusquely, “Only I don’t need any help, least not as far as that’s concerned.”

“Don’t need it or won’t take it?” Sam prodded, crossing his arms.

Dean frowned and jerked his chin back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You take care of everyone else here, all the time, but you don’t do the same for yourself, let alone give anyone a chance to return the favor, to help you be happy.” This was enough to catch Dean off guard. He had assumed the lot of them were hoping for confirmation that he’d gotten caught up in some pretty thing that would work to ease the stern mood he fell into on moving days. But this revelation went far deeper than he would have suspected after years of no one being so bold as to call him out on the dissatisfaction he kept half-hidden on the best of days. Of course, none of them were stupid or blind, but Dean figured he had kept them all sufficiently busy, fed, and content enough to stave off any worrying over him, Sam especially. That he had had it all wrong not only startled him, but had him silently questioning how well he’d actually done to take care of anyone.    
Endeavoring to mask his brief stumble, Dean cleared his throat and gripped his arms tighter.

“You know what makes me happy?” he asked evenly. “Seeing this place up and running properly so that I don’t have to worry about where our next meal’s coming from.”

“That’s a lie and you know it” Sam said, exasperation saturating his tone.

“No, it isn’t,” Dean contended, “All that matters to me is that you--we do more than just scrape by.”   
“Sure, you like when things go smooth, but you aren’t happy, not really. Running the show was dad’s dream, not yours--”

“Sam--”

“And yeah, I know you’re too stubborn to let it go, to put anything you want before anybody else, even a ghost, but it would be nice to see you let yourself have something, especially after so long.” This time, the sad, wide eyed look he gave him was genuine, and Dean knew he was doing his best to bring up his short-lived relationship with their former contortionist whilst still leaving it unspoken. It was a thoughtful gesture, if not a placatingly self-serving one given how Dean’s hackles were already rising even higher at the mention of their father, but unbeknownst to his little brother, what he had with Lisa had not actually been the final straw in his half-hearted attempts at romance. But that was a road he had no plans to traverse with anyone, not even his only remaining blood.

“Are you finished?” he asked, lifting his chin. Sam sniffed in a quick breath through his flared nostrils and pursed his lips shut with a shrug. 

“Good,” Dean concluded, “Because all of this is more than a waste of breath. You worry, I understand that, but as long as you, and the rest of this patchwork outfit is alright, then so am I, get me?

“I get that’s what you’re saying,” Sam agreed, dropping his hands to his sides in defeat. 

“Perfect. And as far as the matchmaking goes, there’s really no need. If I wanted something or someone, I’d take it, end of story.”

“Then what about last night? The person who came to see you?”

“Hate to break it to ya, but all that cupid stuff you have in mind’s all in your head. The only person looking for me last night was a dizzy city fella with a notion to hop a train with us.” Sam wrinkled his nose in confusion, some of his dour mood slipping away.

“No kidding?” he murmured, “As in, someone out of the audience? Wait, was it the volunteer?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dean brushed him off, at last moving to give his attention over to a patiently waiting Impala. “Chances are pretty good that we’ll never see him again, so--” Someone cleared their throat behind him and a reactionary glance over his shoulder became a fixed stare when he found said dizzy city fella standing at the end of the path between tents, Charlie and a blonde man he didn’t recognize flanking him on either side. 

“Good thing Missouri’s the psychic and not you,” Charlie giggled.


	4. Salute

Even without verbal confirmation, it had been clear that Dean had been surprised by Castiel returning as promised. But to his credit, he had recovered quickly enough to offer a friendly greeting before guiding him towards the tent under which they had first met. Now, facing both Dean and a growing crowd of curious onlookers, Castiel stood at the center of the ring waiting for further direction now that he had exceeded expectations by showing up at all.

“Ignore them,” Dean instructed, waving a dismissive hand over his shoulder, “They should be working, not gawking, anyway.” At this, a most of those who had gathered, scampered off, but his brother, lounging on a set of uncollapsed bleachers, a tall man he recognized from the knife throwing act, and the red-haired woman who had twice now lead him to where he needed to be adamantly remained. Endeavoring to mind his future employer, he shifted his gaze from the small audience to the man in front of him, but not before he was graced with a wink, a tentative smile and a thumbs up respectively.

“Now,” Dean continued, “I figure there’s no use dragging you all the way to the next city over if you can’t do what you say, no offense.”

“None taken,” Castiel said earnestly, “What would you like me to demonstrate first?”

“Why don’t we take it from the handstand,” Dean suggested, clasping his hands behind his back, “Then we’ll see where you can go from there. You, uh, need a chair to start off, like yesterday, or…?” Castiel quickly folded forward and lifted his legs into the air as both his response and his opening exhibition. 

“Well, I guess that answers that,” he heard Dean reply, laughter bubbling beneath his words, “What else’ve you got up those fancy sleeves of yours?” He wasn’t wearing anything particularly gaudy or ostentatious, so he had to assume Dean’s teasing commentary was pointed at how he still saw him as an outsider, possibly one with only a passing interest in his livelihood. He had no intention of doing anything short of his best, but it was clear that he was going to have to give it his all if he had any chance of winning Dean over.

Lips pressing into a thin, determined line, Castiel walked forward on his hands until he was at the base of the trapeze’s right side. With a deliberate slowness, Castiel lowered his feet back to the ground and, once righted, started up the ladder to the top of the structure. 

“Whoa! Hey!” Dean called out, rushing toward him, “Hang on a just a minute!” He paused in his ascent and looked over his shoulder to find Dean standing beneath him, hands gripping the wooden side rails tight enough for his knuckles to go white and an odd expression on his face. If Castiel knew the man even a fraction more than their short acquaintance afforded, he would swear he was afraid. 

“You,” Dean puffed, sounding a touch out of breath, “You proved your point, alright?”

“Hardly,” Castiel said, squinting down at him.

Dean shook his head, “Look, we can work with the handstands, alright? Do some kind of planned version of last night. Just--Just don’t go doing something crazy just to get in good with a few strangers.”

“But that’s precisely what I’ve come here to do, and given my experience there’s no cause to expect disaster.”

“Sure thing. Come on down anyway.” Castel cocked his head at him, narrowing his eyes even further. This was different than the earlier skepticism, far less playful, and pessimistic in a way that perfectly aligned with Dean’s earlier surprise at his arrival. He didn’t know Dean yet, not really, but now something beyond his charisma was abundantly clear. 

“That’s a problem of yours, isn’t it?” he said, his phrasing more conclusion than a question.

“What?” Dean asked , confusion mingling with his unease.

“You have no faith,” Castiel replied solemnly. Dean blinked and in that instant of hesitation, Castiel resumed his climb, ignoring the protests behind him once Dean collected himself and fired off more objections. Once he reached the top, he shucked off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and untied the fly bar from where it was tethered. Down below, less frantic voices had begun to sound off, either trying to coax him down or, calm those in distress, but Castiel let it all fall away and with a final inhale pushed off into open space. 

Sailing through the open air, everything came back to him, as if all of his old training had been dormant in his muscles until they could be of use again. It was as simple as taking a stroll down the street, or riding a horse, only nothing on solid ground could compare to the sensation of it all. Outside of the narrow bar, there was nothing but his own body holding him aloft as he spun, flipped, and pirouetted through old routines, and nothing in existences could convince him that this wasn’t precisely how it felt to fly. 

Far too soon, he had run through all he was prepared to show after so much time away from the habit, and he swung himself back to the platform where he had started, his pounding heart and shallow breaths drowning out the rest the of world for just a while longer. And yet, the moment he broadened his focus to include his surroundings, he realized that there was nothing to drown out, that the tent had fallen silent somewhere during his performance, and when he peered down from his perch he saw that his audience was staring up at him in varying states of shock. Dean looked particularly awestruck, green eyes wide, and lips gently parted, and that alone was enough to inspire a small swelling of pride in the center of Castiel's chest.

“That,” Dean started softly, “That was--”

“That was beautiful!” a new voice hailed from the opposite end of the tent. He looked up and found the woman from the rope act--Eileen-- beaming as she made her way over to the rest of the group.

“Do you catch as well?” she went on once she was closer, “Or do you prefer to work alone?”

“Partner work was a large part of my training,” Castiel said, cautiously returning her smile, “With a little practice, I’m sure I could work my way toward a competent duo act.” Eileen dropped her gaze to the tall knife thrower, who offered her a series of gestures that she took in with a quick nod before turning back to him. 

“Then I suppose,” she grinned, “We’ll have to practice, won’t we?”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, moving back to start back down, “Though I feel the remainder of our conversation ought to take place face to face. My apologies, I had no idea you were deaf.”

“It's alright,” Eileen said after the man beside her completed another series of signs, “We already have a psychic. So where did you study?”

“Now just hang on a second,” Dean cut in, “Anyone gonna bother asking me what I think?” For the second time in as many instances Castiel paused at the center of the ladder, only now it was to lower his eyes sheepishly rather than with curiosity. Of course Dean had the final say, and it had been foolish of him to get so caught up that he lost track of that.

“Oh, come on!” the redheaded woman exclaimed, smacking Dean's shoulder, “you can't tell me that we're not taking him on after that!”

“She’s right,” the tall man added, “This is the best get we've had since Benny, maybe even--”

“Settle down,” Dean groused, rubbing his arm where he'd been hit “'Course we’re takin’ him. I’m just wanna get ahold of the reins before all of you run roughshod all over my show. We can get to how we're gonna shake up the acts after we get him introduced and settled.” 

“Excellent!” Balthazar said brightly, at last rising from where he was nonchalantly sprawled, “Because I have a few thoughts.” Dean rounded on him, and even at a distance Castiel could see his shoulders tense.

“And who exactly are you?” Dean asked, a terseness in his voice to match his posture, “His manager or somethin’? ‘Cause I gotta tell you, I don’t deal with slimy middlemen.”

“My, aren’t you fearsome?” Balthazar returned with a mock shiver, “But there’s no need for all of that posturing seeing as I’m Cassie’s equally frightful and English educated older brother. I’m after his safety in these new environs, not his dividends.” 

“... Fair enough,” Dean assented, glancing back at the oversized knife thrower as some of the rigidity eased from his spine, “I’m not so much of a hypocrite that I’ll tell you you can’t chaperone, provided you keep in mind I’m not feedin’ another mouth or obligated to listen to any input whatsoever.”

“Noted. I’ll worry about my own mouth and you’ll help to look after my brother’s.” Dean let out a peculiar cough that, for some reason or another, had Balthazar smirking, and turned back to the others. 

“Alright, well,” he intoned, “We still have a train to catch so hop to it.” Sporting smiles of their own, the small sampling of the troupe filed out of the tent, the redhead linking arms with Balthazar as she went. 

“That means you too, showstopper,” Dean said, regarding Castiel with a fraction of his earlier authority, “You earned your spot, now I’m puttin’ you to work.” He winked and started after the others, leaving Castiel to redouble his efforts to climb down and get to work. The teasing was back and if he had to venture a guess based on his limited understanding, he would say it was where Dean felt most comfortable. But it was different this time, something closer to respect than skepticism, and the notion of that alone was enough to inspire some of the lightness he had felt only moments ago.

* * *

Everything had moved more than according to plan after the trapeze demonstration, so much so that they had managed to arrive at the train station ahead of schedule and, in doing so, surprised the hell out of Bobby’s usually surly conductor friend. Dean probably would have been surprised too, had he not been struggling with keeping his mind in the present, a battle he lost the second everything was loaded in a freight and stock cars and the troupe had taken their places amongst the wooden benches of the train’s second class seating. With nothing pressing left to occupy him until they reached New Hampshire, he had little choice but to stare out the train window and pretend to focus on the scenery that rose and fell before the narrow pane, thoughts he’d attempted to waylay assailing him from all sides. 

He hadn’t meant to be so affected by Cas’s performance, both in terms of how in awe of it he was, and how visibly terrified he had been at its inception. To the first point, he had experienced his fair share of stellar acts, and by that logic had incorrectly relied upon a substantial amount of insulation against any new performers’ charms. As to the second, well before he realized the man had every intention of actually going through with it, Dean had doubted the legitimacy of Cas’s claims to aerial experience, and in his disbelief had failed to prepare himself for the echoes such a feat would stir. The set up wasn’t the same as it once was, hadn’t been since Dean had traded their grimly commemorative tightrope for a set of almost equally ornamental trapeze bars on the vague promise of seeking out a high-flyer to collaborate with Eileen, but the memories still remained enough to haunt. He just hadn’t known how much until he saw Castiel eagerly climbing up to what Dean’s hazy nightmares insisted would be his doom. Considering how things had panned out, it was an instinct he was going to have to learn how to wrestle down if he had any plans to adequately run this new facet of the show.

“Dean?” 

Castiel's deep baritone rumbled across his thoughts and drew his lax attention to the aisle beside his seat where he now stood, one hand holding onto the back of the bench for balance.

“My apologies for disturbing you,” he continued, “But it seems my brother has abandoned me for first class and I--”

“First class?” Dean repeated incredulously, twisting toward him, “I can't afford that ticket or what it’ll take to pay off the people up there if he gets on their last nerve.”

“Oh, no, don't trouble yourself,” Castiel replied, raising a placating hand, “An acquaintance is what lead him there in the first place, so I'm sure your money won't be needed.”

Dean eased back warily, “Your brother’s friends with first-class types?” 

“He... Moves in a wide array of circles.”

“I can see that.”

“Yes, well, in any case, seeing as I have been left to my own devices, I believe now would be as good a time as any to talk at length about my placement in the show.” 

“Gettin’ down to business while you’re audience is captive, huh? By all means.” He gestured to the empty space next to him and Castiel slid into it without any further prompting. Neither of them was especially small, necessitating a decent amount of crowding together on the narrow wooden bench, but Dean firmly chose to ignore how Castiel’s thigh pressed against his knee. They were all set to talk about practical matters at hand, something Dean was more than equipped to handle, so there was no need to introduce more complicated thinking or feeling when he was already balancing on edge.

“During the breakdown and part of the way to the station,” Castiel said, “Some of the other performers and I were discussing where a trapeze act would fit best, but ultimately I decided it made the most sense to defer to you before any plans were well and truly formed.”

“Good call” Dean agreed, “Out of curiosity though, what’d they come up with?”

“Eileen suggested placing it alongside her rope act,” Castiel recounted, interlacing his fingers and resting them against his lap, “But your brother and Joanna--”

“Jo. Go for the full name and you might end up on the wrong side of a throwing knife.”

“Understood. The two of them suggested I replace them in the finale but, I don’t want to draw any unearned attention to myself at the expense of the others.” Dean let out a short laugh and further angled himself toward him.

“Cas,” he smirked, “I think we're way past any attention you get being unearned. Dynamite act like yours is made for gettin’ stared at.” Castiel peered up at him through his dark lashes, offering a sheepish smile of his own that was far more endearing than he had any right to.

“You liked it?” he asked.

Dean shrugged, “You wouldn't be on this train if I didn't,” 

“I wasn't sure,” Castiel reasoned, “After the way I seemed to upset you in undertaking it in the first place.”

“Didn't upset me. Just uh, caught me off guard. I know you said you had experience but I wasn't expecting all of that.”

“Much in the way you didn't expect me to return this morning.” Dean absentmindedly swiped at the back of his neck, taking his own turn at bashfulness.

“It wasn't anything personal,” he said, “it's just… In my experience, a person saying they're gonna do a thing isn't a guarantee, especially when it's coming from some stranger who doesn't need to join a circus to make a living.

“Oh?” Castiel raised an eyebrow, “And what makes you so sure I don't need it?”

“Pretty big tell that you haven't once asked about pay,” Dean explained.

“Fair point. But, I would argue that I did, in fact, return, and with the display of skills I promised.”

“That you did.”

“So I suppose I will have to continue to make good on my claims until you're convinced, and in the meantime keep enough faith for the pair of us.”

“There you go again with that faith business. You're not a Bible thumper, are you?” He meant it as banter, more of the easy ribbing they had comfortably fallen into and a sure-fire way to steer past any of the soul piercing commentary he’d been subject to earlier, but the small crease forming between Cas’s brows told him he’d hit closer to home than intended. 

“No,” Castiel said softly, “That would be my father, once upon a time anyway. He had a fascination with theology and named us all accordingly, or as close as mother would allow. Balthazar would have been  Balthioul had she not put her foot down, and my own name is a bastardization of the angel Cassiel’s.” Dean opened his mouth to offer a weak crack at how Cas had gotten the better end of the deal with the last minute alteration, when he was struck by an idea that had him rapidly shifting gears.

“I got it,” he blurted.

“Got… What?” Castiel asked, tilting his head in a way that Dean was beginning to expect of him.

“That’s the gimmick,” Dean explained. “Castiel the Angel--No! The Fallen Angel. It’ll be perfect. 

“I suppose that does have a certain… blasphemous charm to it. Though I’m not sure ‘fallen’ accurately describes the---”

“Eh, folks are already coming to a circus, they expect a little sin. And I know just where to fit you into all of it too.”

“Beginning or end?”

“Ha! Neither. That’s why it’s me and not them that has final say. Cas, buddy, this is gonna be fantastic. Or fantastical, even. Yeah, that should go in there too-- I mean, unless you think it’s too much of a mouthful.” He surfaced from his wild plotting to give Castiel a questioning glance, and was met with a gummy grin that left little doubt as to the bent Dean’s growing attachment to his latest act was taking. The renewed interest in his own fraught profession should have been a dead giveaway, but the little flip his traitorous stomach gave clinched it. He was staring down the barrel of a frighteningly familiar path, only this time starting any further down it was twice as stupid when he took into account all he already knew and now stood to lose. He needed to get a grip before this progressed any faster than it already had.

“I think it sounds just fine,” Castiel said, blue eyes gleaming,

“Great!” he chirped, voice pitching higher than intended “And uh, speaking of sound,  better that you let me do all the talking. Not that the audience usually needs more than my big mouth but still, you’ve got a voice that goes way against type.”

Cas frowned, head tilted even further sideways, and Dean couldn’t believe the gesture wasn’t straining the man’s neck. “What’s wrong with my voice?” 

“Nothing!” he clarified sharply, “It’s… Well it’s just not angelic is all. More, uh, whiskey soaked-- Not that that’s a bad thing! Matter of fact I’m sure it drives ‘em wild--The ladies, I mean... Just, uh, just trust me on this one.”

“Well,” Castiel contemplated, the downturn of his mouth easing, “You are the veteran, I suppose.”

“Right. Right, exactly.” Cas nodded slowly and Dean sagged back against the window, wishing for all the world that  _ he _ was a contortionist so he could kick himself in the teeth for how quickly things were sliding away from his control. He  _ would _ get a grip, no question. If not now, then certainly by the time they made it to their next destination. 


	5. Angel

After arriving in Jefferson and reaching the grounds the operations manager had secured, they all spent the next three days setting up tents and rehearsing the show’s restructured line up. From what Castiel could tell, the practice was mostly for his sake, as all the other performers knew their own parts forward and backward, but he appreciated the chance to reintroduce himself to the craft, as well as get acquainted with those he would be working with. Not all of it came easy in the beginning, both in terms of the acrobatics and the introductions. Some sections of his routine were slower to come back to him than he would have liked, and while Eileen, Charlie, and Garth the clown were quick to make friends, others were understandably more guarded, with Bobby’s gruff temperament and Jo’s brash way of speaking making it difficult to really tell where he stood. However in no time at all his muscle memory began to take a better hold, and with his visibly renewed physical competency came a stronger sense of camaraderie between him and nearly all of his fellow entertainers.

Nearly because, in contrast to the overall trend, things between he and Dean began to chill immediately following the conclusion of the train ride. He wasn’t rude to him or unkind by any means, but Dean seemed to hold himself at a purposeful distance that didn’t at all align with how their acquaintanceship had been progressing. He wanted to believe that the blame lay solely on all the work that brokered little time for distraction of any sort, but he couldn’t fully deny that something was suddenly off kilter, and Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with the lingering pessimism they had addressed on the ride to New Hampshire. Unfortunately, with all there was to do and prepare, there wasn’t any opportunity to get anything that didn’t factor into the business sorted out.

The fourth evening of their stay marked the first of two planned performances, and found Castiel and Balthazar entering the tent much as they had back in Augusta, only this time with a clear plan in place for when Castiel was called to the ring. For the first half of the show, he sat amongst the audience, watching the Baines twins’ synchronized opening number and the acts that followed with a persistent buzz under his skin. He wasn’t nervous so much as he was eager to get before the crowd and put his skills to use, to feel that sense of rightness that had led to his joining up, and to take yet another leap toward proving this was more than just a passing fancy to him.

After intermission, during which Missouri merely offered Castiel and Balthazar a discreet, playful wink, Dean stepped back into the ring and began strolling along its outskirts, a signal that the time for their plan was at hand.

“Welcome back folks!” Dean called, “‘preciate you stickin’ with us. Now for this next act, I’m gonna need a volunteer.” As expected, a fair amount of hands shot up throughout the audience, but it wasn’t until Castiel raised his own arm with practiced trepidation that the ringmaster made his selection.

“You there!” he called, dramatically stretching to point him out, “With the baby blues! No need to be shy, I promise nothing in this act bites! At least, I think.” Laughter reverberated throughout the crowd as Dean made a show of peering around for stray monkeys, giving Castiel a chance to make it down to the floor without much fanfare or notice.

“Welcome!” Dean boomed with an enthusiastic handshake, his showman's grin maintaining a firm barrier between them, “And thanks for your bravery, mister…?” Castiel opened his mouth but stopped short as if suddenly remembering something, and pressed his lips together with a solemn shake of his head.

“What's the matter?” Dean frowned, “Monkey got your tongue?” He paused for another round of laughter and Castiel shook his head a second time.

“Don't tell me you’ve lost your nerve already,” Dean pressed reproachfully, looping an arm behind his back to swivel him toward the audience, “Come on, tell the people your name, nice and loud.” Silently refusing a third time, Castiel reached into his pocket for his one and only prop, and came up empty handed. He stiffened, a previously absent thread of nerves winding its way into his gut as his fingers fumbled around the decidedly empty lining. He was certain he had placed it--

“Looking for this?” Dean asked, and when he looked up from where his panicked gaze had dropped, he found him holding the slip of paper that had been placed into his keeping earlier that night. Castiel glared at him, fighting to keep his surprise free of irritation, and Dean smirked back, a flash of genuine humor glinting in his eyes.

“Sorry,” he went on, “I couldn't help myself. Anyway, no harm done if you wanted me to read it in the first place right?” He raised an eyebrow and Castiel at last nodded, sighing out an exaggerated breath for good measure.

“Well alright then, ladies and gents,” Dean exclaimed as he unfolded the note, “Let's see what we have--” He clipped his sentence short, jerking his chin back in confusion before glancing back and forth between Castiel and the paper.

“Huh,” he said, placing a hand on his hip, “Folks, I don’t know how to explain this so I’ll, uh, just read this little message of his out loud: ‘I am Castiel, an angel of the lord. My true voice is overwhelming to humans, so for your benefit, I will not speak.’” He lowered the note with a snort and gave the audible disbelief a chance to run its course.

“Where’s his wings?” one voice shouted.

“Hey, did my no good Uncle make it past the pearly gates?” another jeered.

“He’s crazy! Pick someone else!”

“Now, I gotta say,” Dean eventually cut in, “I’ve seen a lot in my line of work, but this--” He crossed his arms and turned back to Castiel with a tsk, “This is a little far-fetched even for me. Sorry fella, but I just can’t take your, uh, non-word that you’re an honest to you-know-who angel. But, hey, it’s original, I’ll give ya that. Let’s have a hand for the comedian, everyone.” He reached out to direct Castiel back to his seat but he stepped away from Dean’s grasp and swiftly folded backward into a handstand as a silent means of argument. He held the pose for a few beats, carefully listening for the excited murmur he had inspired to start tapering off before shifting his weight to his right side tucking his left hand against his lower back.

“OK, OK,” Dean bellowed over what was now a generous clamoring of applause, “I’ll admit, that’s impressive--damned impressive even, if you’ll pardon my blaspheming. But all that shows me is that you’re light on your feet. So, are you gonna be reasonable and go back to your seat, or do I need to call our strong man out here to help you fly back to the risers?”

“He’s an angel, isn’t he?” someone cried, “Perhaps he can fly on his own!”

“Yeah, what else can he do?” a female onlooker added.

“Let ‘im show us!” Several others began to echo their companion’s sentiments, and when Dean’s convincing but half-hearted attempts to win them back failed, Castiel made his way to the bottom of the trapeze as fast as his hands could carry. Flipping upright, he climbed the ladder two rungs at a time and arrived at its top to a chorus of cheers that had Dean whirling to stare up at him in a decent facsimile of real horror.

“H-hang on!” he shouted, racing toward him as he stripped down to the undergarment-like tights he had on under his clothes, “Get down before you get yourself killed!” Castiel unlatched the hook holding the trapeze in place and took hold of the bar in both hands, peering down toward the ground to meet Dean’s wide, green eyes. They only held one another’s gaze for a split second, but in that fraction of a moment Castiel felt the same electricity that had arced between them the night they first met, and it was that spark, not the cheers beneath it, that gave him the final push to kick off into open space.

It was different this time, than it had been the day he auditioned and in rehearsals. There was still the incredible sensation of soaring, but there was somehow even more to it, a feeling above the usual lightness that took him to a place where he moved almost without thought. Soon, he was balancing on nothing more than his hip bones, twirling with his hands clutched against his thighs instead of the ropes or rod, and when his routine came to an end the sensation remained. Only, it wasn’t the flying or the applause that held him. It was the man holding his hand aloft as he pronounced him ‘Castiel, the Fantastical Flying Angel,’ awe, elation, and something he couldn’t quite define swimming in his eyes. It had only been a few days, and it hardly made any sense, but timing and logic couldn’t alter the truth that that look bolted home.

He wasn’t flying. He was falling, hard, and there didn’t seem to be a care or a net to catch him.

* * *

After Sam and Jo’s finale, Dean joined the everyone gathered back stage with a grin so wide his face ached with it. The new lineup had gone over better than he could have hoped, the crowd had been on their feet raving for more, and he had actually found some joy in the wave, after years of just pulling a face for everyone else’s sake. Better still, now that it was all said and done, he wasn’t crashing from the high. In the back of his mind, he knew the feeling couldn’t last, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to relinquish it prematurely, not after it had inexplicably come to him after doing without for so long. Well, perhaps not altogether inexplicably, but an unspoken condition of his allowing the extended good mood was that he didn't attribute a name to it, or make eye contact with it while in front of a whole gang of people. He'd been doing well these past few days and that sort of thing would be an embarrassing backslide indeed.

“Uh, boss?” Benny piped up, “You gonna say somethin’ or just dimple at us until your cheeks wear out?”

“Right,” Dean sniffed, dropping the smile for something sterner as he jerked back to his senses. “I just wanted to say you all did… Alright tonight. Decent, if I had to put a name to it.” The sour reactions were instantaneous, with exaggerated groans and a few balled up popcorn bags that almost landed when tossed his way. While dodging the trash, he chanced a quick sweep of the room and briefly caught sight of Cas standing at the back of the crowd, smiling in that soft way of his as he refused a paper projectile Alicia was attempting to offer on the sly.

“Come on, boy,” Bobby scolded over the din, “Even I ain’t that hard.”

“Fine, fine,” Dean said, visibly giving into some of the cheer he’d gone to the trouble of masking, “You all were pretty damn good. Although next time, you can probably tone it down with the heckling during Cas’s opening bit. Overactin’ll get you made as a plant every time.”

“Come on!” Alicia protested, “Just say we were great and leave it there.”

“I gotta agree with the kid on this one,” Dorothy threw in, “I think we were far better than fine, new guy included, and you need to say it.” For a second time that night, the crowd in front of him started banding together in agreement, playfully demanding spoken accolades for themselves and their newest, acrobatic hire.

“Sure, I could say that,” Dean offered before they could get too rowdy, “Or even that I’m proud of each and every one of you. But, since I’m not the sappy type, I’ll do ya one better: you don’t have call until tomorrow night, so you’ve got till then to do whatever you’d like that won’t get you arrested. And, if you can’t think of anything off the top of your better than fine heads, I’d be more than willing to crack open a bottle of the good stuff around a fire with any takers. Now go on, get outta here.” A whoop went up from a few of them and they filed out en masse. With all of their eyes focused elsewhere, Dean at last zeroed in on Cas and started making his way over to him as they crossed the trampled grass to the cluster of tents that made up their encampment. Self-control aside, he had every intention of taking a moment to pull him aside for his own brand of congratulations now that there was a break in the others backslapping him. He'd done better than promised and Dean owed him at least that much.

He was nearly to him and about to risk calling out to him to stay his progress along the path, when Balthazar jogged over to intercept Castiel for himself.

“Just the man I was looking for!” he crowed, “Cassie you were spectacular! A genius of the aerial arts!”

“Thank you,” Castiel said warily, “Now, what are you after? Please don’t tell me you’ve already gotten yourself into mischief?”

“What?” Balthazar gasped, placing a hand on his chest, “No-- For starters, I’m _your_ chaperone, remember? And besides that, can’t I show a little brotherly appreciation for your genius? Who on Earth led you to such a jaded view of reality?”

“I believe it was a rare group effort from most of the family, yourself very much included. Now what is it that you’re buttering me up for?”

“No buttering, just offering a preamble to setting my effort toward convincing you to allow yourself a good time.” From where he had chosen to hang back, Dean could hear the put upon sigh Castiel let out, and even though his back was to him, his own lengthy tenure as someone’s sibling made it all too easy for him to imagine the look that came with it.

“Hear me out, brother dearest,” Balthazar urged, clasping his hands together, “Two of New Hampshire’s finest came calling after the show--positively gorgeous creatures-- and they want nothing more than to wine and dine you to your heart’s content as thanks for your splendid performance.”

“I'm not even hungry,” Castiel replied dryly.

“Then it’ll be more wine than dine,” his brother concluded, “Always an excellent choice if you want my opinion. Honestly, this is the first time one of your wanderings has struck gold and we can't waste the opportunity while the iron is hot.”

“You're mixing metaphors,”

“While I would prefer to be mixing drinks and lovely company, I know, it's tragic.” Castiel shook his head and moved to continued forward, but Balthazar stepped into his path, taking up a firm stance to block him, and in doing so spotted Dean at his poorly chosen vantage several paces behind Cas.

“Winchester!” Balthazar pleaded, “please help me talk sense into my wayward baby brother.” Castiel shifted away from his brother to face him, looking just about as unamused as he had expected

“Sorry” Dean said, raising his palms defensively, “But from the sounds of it, this is between the two of you.”

“Nonsense,” Balthazar batted the comment away with a wave, “By all means, explain to him that he’s wasting his new found celebrity on-- what dull thing is it that you plan to undertake?”

“There was talk of a campfire, with the others,” Castiel replied with a nod toward where Bobby was already setting up, “I thought it would be best if I attended.”

“Alright, but it isn’t mandatory, is it?” Balthazar countered, gaze bouncing between the two of them before settling on Dean, “Is it, boss man?”

“Not even a little bit,” Dean shrugged, tucking his hands in his pockets to quell the sudden urge to fidget.

“See?” Balthazar shot back at Castiel.

“Yeah, I mean, the only show I run is the one we sell tickets to, so don’t go doin’ anything just because you think you gotta.” Dean wasn’t sure why he was pushing the issue against his own favor. He would have much preferred Cas took his celebratory drinks with him and the others, and not some fair weather fans Balthazar had picked out for him. But then again, maybe there was a part of him that wanted to see what Castiel wanted, a big, stupid part that wondered if he had done right in keeping his distance or if the feelings that inspired his caution were somehow onto something.

“You heard the, man, Cassie!” Balthazar said, looping an arm over his shoulders, “So let’s get going.” Castiel made no move or response in one direction or another, instead fixing Dean with a long, questioning stare. When Dean returned the gaze impassively, waiting for an unfettered response, something in his expression hardened and he at last allowed his brother to lead him away with a nod that seemed almost grim. Or, more likely, that was merely how Dean saw it now that his own mood had taken a bad tumble. Of course Cas had picked a night on the town with his brother and a couple of girls over a bottle of swill with strangers, not to mention a ringmaster who wasn’t capable of acting halfway normal when he was around.

Taking a steadying breath, he fled the scene of his latest slip up for the relative safety of his tent, and the alcohol he knew he would find there. He was fairly certain that no one would miss him for the few moments he would need to recover, or the swigs he would steal to help him along. He made it as far as his quarters’ canvas threshold before this secondary plan was also thwarted.

“Dean Winchester,” Missouri clucked, startling him with her sudden appearance and a light swat to the back of his head, “Just when I think you can’t be any more fool than you already are! You’re lucky you aren’t the only one that has a say in how this plays out.”

“Hey,” he yelped, ducking away from her and into the enclosure, “One, what the hell? And B, your head so full of psychic visions you forget who writes the checks around here?”

“That would be Bobby,” Sam said, ambling toward them with Jo in tow, “Anyway, I’ll bet she’s right, as usual.”

“Perfect,” Dean muttered, “You two on your way to the fire, or did you come here to give me crap too?”

“Depends on if any needs givin’,” Jo returned slyly, “What’d you do?”

“Sent that new boy out into the night with his brother and a pair of blondes,” Missouri scoffed, shaking her head as she started walking toward her own dwelling, “Such a shame, he’s as dim as he is pretty.”

“Yeah, what were you thinking?” Jo piled on, “Sending angel-face away with his brother and a coupla trollops? Or, wait, maybe you weren’t thinking at all.” Dean fought back a potentially telling eye roll. He wasn’t going to give into this ambush so easy, not when things were still vague enough for a few easy denials to help him slip out of it.

“Don’t you have better things to do than ruin a guy’s good mood?” he deflected, “Sharpening some knives or, in Sam’s case, tracking down your more sensible half?” His eyes cast around for anyone else who may have been lurking nearby, but to both his benefit and tough luck, there was no one else close enough to further accost or assist him.

“I think we’re right where we need to be,” Jo said, tapping her chin, “Maybe a few minutes late to completely save you from yourself, but we’ll make do.”

“The only thing I need saving from is this conversation,” he griped. 

“Dean,” Sam pressed, a gently pitying smile creasing his features, “Look, I know how you like to do the whole arms length thing, at least until you know a person, but you don’t have to pretend you don’t want Cas around. We all like him, and it’s pretty obvious you do too.” Sam raised his eyebrows encouragingly, but Dean wasn’t going for it, not tonight or any other if he could help it.

“Great,” he snapped, “We all like the new guy. I’ll remember that for the next time, OK? Are we done? Good.” He turned on his heel and darted into his tent before any of them could respond, draping the the entrance shut in a clear sign not to chase after him.

“Dean!” Sam’s now muffled voice called after him, “Come on.”

“Drop it, Sammy,” he shouted back, kneeling beside his bed to dig the whiskey out of his luggage. As soon as he laid his hands on the neck of the bottle he had packed, he rose up and stomped back outside to head toward the fire, not at all bothering to see if Sam and Jo were still waiting or had wised up and moved on. When he reached the small clearing, he found a collection of logs loosely circling the pit Bobby was still tending to, and none of the others yet in attendance. With a low grunt, he dropped down to the section of makeshift benches that faced away from the camp and uncorked the whiskey for an inaugural pull.

“Aren't we 'sposed to be celebratin’” Bobby asked, kneeling to carefully adjust a slipping piece of kindling.

“Yep,” Dean replied.

“Huh,” Bobby hummed, sparing him a sidelong glance but otherwise letting it lie. Dean lifted the the bottle to him in a lazy salute and took a second draught that lasted long enough for Dorothy to have joined him on an adjacent log. Without anything more than a raised eyebrow, she stretched a tin mug out toward him and he happily obliged, pouring her two fingers of the liquid before setting it at his feet uncorked. He planned on coming back for much more, so there was no reason to bother with shutting things up.

They sat in a companionable silence for a few minutes as she sipped from her cup, one Dean didn’t expect to be broken until the others arrived, given who he was paired with. Contrary to the woman she spent most of her days and nights cozied up with, Dorothy was a stoic type and, in all the years he had known her, preferred to keep to the fringes of idle banter. It was a temperament that complimented Charlie’s well and, for the moment, suited his own just fine.

“Charlie wants me to poke at you,” she announced against his expectations, “But we both know that’s not really my style. Anyway, from the looks of it, you’ve had enough of that already.”

“That’s why I like you, Gale,” he smirked hopefully, “You’re a woman of action, not words.”

“Words don’t do much good when you’re a monkey wrangler,” she mused lightly.

“Hey, not _a_ monkey wrangler, _the_ monkey wrangler. Best in the business.” This drew a short huff of a chuckle from her and soft head shake along with it.

“Relax, champ,” she said, “You don’t have to flatter a girl back into letting you be. Like I said, prodding isn’t how I do things. That goes for ganging up, too. Us oddities should be sticking together, not turning on one another..”

“I prefer ‘eccentrics’,” Dean suggested wryly, ‘But all the same, thanks.”

“Well whatever you want to call us,” she reasoned, “What I said goes for you too, tough guy. Don’t go rounding on the rest of us if you should ever need a hand. We’re already on the outskirts of things, we might as well try and help one another from being too miserable.” She took another sip of her drink, meeting his eyes over the edge of the cup. That familiar, terrifying understanding lay plain in her gaze, the kind that would have sent him running were it not for the promise not to press matters further.

“You sure Charlie isn’t rubbing off on you?” he asked, swiping at the back of his neck as if he could wipe away the tension that adamantly lingered there.

“Are you angling for details?” she returned playfully, “Because that would be rather indecent of you. Though, you were the one to introduce us, so--”

“Absolutely not,” he grimaced, “By all means, leave me in the dark, I’m begging you.”

“What’s he beggin’ for now?” Bobby drawled, circling the fire and snatching up the whiskey.

“Peace and quiet,” Dean shot back, but without any heat. Bobby scoffed, and took up a solitary spot across from them.

“Sorry to be there bearer of bad news,” he said, “But this outfit’s already got a resident grump, so you’re gonna have to pick a new trick.”

“I always thought he was your apprentice,” Charlie broke in as she sauntered down the path and into the circle. Dean shifted to lob back a reply and was greeted by the sight of Castiel standing a few paces behind her, trying and failing to mask his discomfort. Quickly picking up on the direction of Dean’s gaze, Charlie glanced over her shoulder and seemed to use her entire body to roll her eyes at Castiel’s obvious reluctance before marching to his side and dragging him into the glow of the firelight.

“Sorry for the delay” she said with a grin, dropping down between him and Dorothy, “I got waylaid when I ran into a certain someone trying to head into town because he got the crazy idea he wasn’t wanted here.”

“It wasn’t that,” Castiel demurred, and not from the first time from the sound of it, “I simply didn’t want to intrude on a tradition.” Dean blinked, immediately set off kilter by his statement and the sincerity that seemed to bolster it.

“See, that’s just plain silly” Charlie argued, “You got yourself hired on, so our traditions are your traditions. And actually, after a night like tonight, you’re pretty much the guest of honor, right Dean?” They each turned to look at him and as much as he wanted to scowl back at Charlie’s poorly feigned innocence, it was Cas’s expression that snatched up his focus the instant the full brunt of it hit him. There was no resistance there, only doubt and that same question he had silently posed before Balthazar led him off, and suddenly it struck him that he’d gotten things all wrong. Cas had and still wanted to be there, to be a part of their modest, cobbled-together rituals, and Dean couldn’t see any reason to deny him that, not when he hadn’t meant to in the first place. His nonsensical feelings were his burden to hold in check, and there was no reason for Cas to suffer for them. True to form, he had been every bit the fool Missouri had named him, but there was at least some small consolation to be had in realizing Cas, too, was needing the reassurance of someone as mixed up as him.

“She’s right, Cas,” he said firmly, “I’m not all that great with words outside of the show, and I’m sorry if that tripped you up, but you’re more than welcome here.”

“Are--are you sure?” Castiel asked, the hangdog cast that clouded his face tentatively fading, “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Cas, quit standin’ there like a spectator and pull up a log,” he ordered, though the smile twitching at the corner of his lips took all the bark out of it. Castiel nodded, and claimed the empty space next to Dean, his posture relaxing ever so slightly once he was seated.

“You gotta drink too,” Dean counseled.

“I believe I can handle that much,” Castiel agreed.

“Well, then,” Charlie chimed in, crossing the clearing to take the bottle from Bobby, ‘Time to catch up then.”


	6. Listo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little history from Cas...

Once they started him on his first round of drinks and others began to make their appearance around the fire, Castiel's mood began to recover from the blow it had taken earlier that evening when he thought he had been sent away. In fact, a part of him was a little embarrassed about the entire misunderstanding, which needn't have happened at all had the realization of his feelings for Dean not left him over-cautious. He wasn’t bothered by what he felt. The things he had done and seen both at home and abroad had cured him of any attachment to normalcy that would have provoked him to bury something so precious beneath traditional shame. More than anywhere else, the real trouble lay in Dean himself, and how Castiel was at a loss to interpret the varied spectrum of their interactions, let alone if broaching the topic of their relations was worth the monumental risk. It was that uncertainty that had nearly sent him off into the night with Balthazar’s latest conquests, his mind far too preoccupied with the complications between himself and his employer to orchestrate any means of self-preservation. Thankfully, in quite literally dragging him back to camp, Charlie had offered him a solid reprieve in the form of whiskey and friendly company. Even now, as the conversation was beginning to mellow, he found himself mercifully distracted.

“And then,” Garth giggled as he launched into another of his bizarre anecdotes, “This one time in Iowa--”

“So, Cas,” Jo interrupted, by now a hint of a slur to her speech, “What’s your story?”

“My… Story?” he repeated..

“Pfft,” she huffed, snuggling deeper into where she was nestled on the ground between the Baines twins calves, “I mean, Dean told us that you learned all your tricks overseas but… How--Or, why? Maybe both even?”

“Sounds like someone’s about done,” Garth chuckled, bringing on a bout of hiccups.

“Same to you, funny bones,” Jo quipped, “Now, hush. I wanna hear what the angel’s got to say.” Castiel pursed his lips. On the one hand, he certainly felt as though he owed them some explanation, considering how readily they had opened their ranks to him, but on the other he wondered just how accepting they would be if he told them all of it, particularly the finer details of what he had come from.

“Hey,” Dean offered, gently placing a hand on his arm, “You don’t have to, if you don’t want. She probably won’t remember she even asked it come morning.” Jo blew a raspberry in his direction, but Dean ignored her in favor of keeping a concerned watch over him, and just like that Castiel’s decision was made for him. He only hoped what he was willing to give would be enough for now.

“It’s...It’s alright,” he answered slowly, turning from Dean to fix his gaze upon the fire, "I suppose... It begins with the war."

“The war made you a high flyer?” Garth wondered aloud.

“After a fashion, yes,” Castiel replied, “Before it all began, I mostly kept to the studies--”

“Understatement,” Balthazar threw in blithely as he swaggered out of the darkness, “If you hadn't preferred to sometimes read outdoors, I'm not sure you would have ever seen the light of day.”

Castiel frowned at him incredulously, as he settled down beside him, “Shouldn’t you be bedded down in your hotel with New Hampshire’s finest?”

“Oh Cassie,” he chided, “I’ll have you know it’s much too early for bed. And as far as my earlier company, it proved to be far less fine than I’d hoped, I’m afraid. But nevermind that, let’s get back to the story telling. We were starting off with you languishing under a pile of books, correct?”

“What were you studying to be?” Sam asked, hands raised to sign both his question and any responses for Eileen.

“My primary focuses were in finance and law” Castiel said, dropping his gaze back to the embers before them. Sam's face lit up, but Dean raised a hand to stay him.

“The other love of Sammy's life is law,” he explained, “So you're probably due to have your ear talked off now, but we’ll leave it ‘til he has you to himself, otherwise you’ll never finish what you're tryin’ to say.”

“I thought you said he didn't have to talk,” Jo yawned.

“Yeah, well now he is, and I wanna hear it,” Dean replied, and the way he said it made Castiel believe that he meant it. Somehow, that made it both easier and harder to keep going as he was.

“For a long time,” he continued, “I was-- Not satisfied, but able to make do with the direction I was taking, learning what I needed to earn a place within the family trade, but then talk of war began to spread and, it was impossible to keep my nose buried in my textbook, not when there were lives and freedoms at stake.”

“So you dropped the books for a bayonet and enlisted?” Benny asked, brows lifting appraisingly.

“Not at first, no. My mother put me off of it for a good while. She reasoned that they had enough volunteers already, including her three eldest sons, and that I ought to stay close in case my father needed assistance while the others were away. But then I heard of the deficit in officers and I volunteered before my name was even pulled.”

“With mother wailing after you as if you were already dead,” Balthazar added .

Castiel nodded, “Both of us.”

“It was almost funny. I’d been coming and going since adolescence and that was the first time she ever batted an eye.”

“Hang on,” Dean coughed, leaning past Castiel to eye him doubtfully, “You fought in the war? _You?_ ”

Balthazar sighed, pulling a small flask from his vest, “I joined up to keep my brother from losing his head, literally as the case may have been, and as you can see I succeeded. Meade and Grant helped too, I suppose.” He unscrewed the metal container to take a small nip of its contents, and Dean appeared to let the matter drop, something in his expression turning inward.

“It was awful,” Castiel resumed, “So many dead, even in victory, and in the end I was nearly one of them after taking a sabre to my stomach just West of Petersburg.” He paused, smoothing a hand over his left side to quell the phantom pain that arched across it. He was completely healed, according to the doctors and the long-sealed scar across his abdomen, but sometimes it came back to him, just like the horrific flashes of the sights, sounds, and smells from those horrific, bygone years. These days, they mostly kept to few and far between nightmares, something he credited his constant drives to distraction with, but it was never truly gone, and likely never would be.

Castiel cleared his throat, “... When I finally came back to myself, the battles were reaching their end, having claimed one sibling by another’s hand--”

“Bloody Lucian,” Balthazar spat, “Lucifer, more like. Sometimes I still wonder if he joined the Grey Backs out of spite for father. Only cost him his miserable life, a fair bit of Michael’s sanity… And father.” He took another gulp from the flask and Castiel felt him press closer to his side.

“Our father passed weeks before we returned home,” he grated forward, “He hadn’t been well in the months before, but the shock of Lucien’s death proved to be the final straw. After that, it was... Difficult to be at home and impossible to return to my studies as if nothing had changed. With two of our older brothers more than capably managing the business left behind, and each of the others comfortably in the arms of their solitary diversons, I allowed Balthazar to drive me to distraction abroad.”

“Only as it happened,” Balthazar scoffed, though not quite so bitterly, “Those distractions took the form of some kind of mad tourism. Mountaineering and nearly tumbling down the Alps with a group of mad Englishmen, playing at flying with some mad lawyer who fancied himself an acrobat-- as if almost dying once wasn’t enough.”

Castiel shook his head gently, “It wasn’t about… That. It was as if--”

“Home didn’t feel like home anymore,” Dean supplied, voice leaden, “So you took off for places-- things-- to fill the space, or maybe even make you miss it enough to go back.” Castiel chanced peering over at him, too stunned to notice the silence that had fallen, or much of anything else that wasn’t Dean’s words or the tightness of his jaw. He had never had it explained so well, aloud or in his own thoughts, and it was uncomfortably fitting that the man he had found himself so irresistibly drawn to was also the one who pierced straight to the center of his motives.

A loud snore ripped through his contemplation, and when he looked up he saw the instigator of his story-telling fast asleep on the ground between the twins.  
“I suppose the origins are far less compelling than their outcome,” Castiel apologized sheepishly.

“Nah,” Benny yawned, stretching his arms up to lace his fingers together and rest them behind his head, “Pretty sure Jo’d be out cold even if ya were to sprout wings and fly around like a real angel. Tough as she is, you can only hold so much whiskey in a body that small.”

Garth sniffed, “Well, I think it was a beautiful story. Sad, but real romantical.” Castiel smiled at each of them in turn, feeling at least somewhat vindicated by their opposing reassurances, as well as the other kind faces surrounding him.

“Alright,” Bobby said, heaving himself up from his seat, “If we’re under threat of blubberin’ then I’m gettin’ while the gettin’s good. Here’s hopin’ some of you’ve got enough of yer wits left to take care of the fire.” He ambled toward them and clapped Dean on the back before continuing beyond the light’s reach, startling the ringmaster back to himself without bothering to stay for the aftermath.

Dean sniffed, nodding stiffly and one time too many, “Old man’s right. We might not have an early call but I can’t have you all so soused and worn out you’re not ready when I do need you. Come on, pack it in.” Amidst a few mumbled protests and even more yawns of assent, the group began filtering out of the circle toward their tents. Beside him, Balthazar rose up from the ground with an exaggerated stretch.

“I hope your accommodations are large enough to fit the two of us,” he sighed.

Frowning, Castiel stood up as well, “I thought you were against--”

“Bedding down with the the big top?” Balthazar provided, “Yes, well, the nearest hotel isn’t near enough for how knackered I am so here we are. Now, baby brother, would you be so kind as to direct me to your humblest abode?” Castiel hesitated, eyes briefly flicking toward Dean, who had crossed away from him to kneel behind the log Bobby had perched upon moments ago.

“Not… As of yet,” he returned, “I feel that it would be unkind to retire before offering to assist with whatever chores are required of setting this space to rights.” Balthazar took a moment of his own to glimpse across enclosure and regarded him with a snort.

“I see how it is,” he surmised, “Leaving me to fend for myself in favor of your new playmate. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given what fast friends you’ve become. The camaraderie between you two has been practically palpable all evening.” Castiel could sense the faintest tease of a challenge in his brother’s voice, but he didn’t take the bait. Their unwavering bond and Balthazar’s own varied eccentricities aside, at present Castiel hadn’t the energy or temperament to risk haphazardly tumbling into such topics.

“It isn’t like that,” he protested, “And this isn’t the wilderness, Bal, I’m sure you’ll find--”

“My brother and I would be happy to show you the way,” Alicia piped up as she and her brother paused on their way past, an unconscious Jo supported between them, “To Castiel’s or any other suitable lodgings, should you be so inclined.”

“That’s right,” Max added, a touch of mischief in his eyes, “As a matter of fact, I know I have more than enough room to spare in my tent, perhaps even more than my sister’s.”

“In either case,” Alicia said quickly, “You have options.” She finished with a pretty smile and Balthazar raised an eyebrow, giving each of the siblings an appraising that Castiel recognized well enough. His brother was discerning but far from what anyone could deem prudish or restrained in where he sourced his entertainment.

“My, my, Cassie” he mused, still eyeing the twins, “Let it never be said that your new friends are boring. ”

“Does this mean I’m relieved of duty and censure?” Castiel asked dryly.

“For now, anyway,” Balthazar agreed with a distracted wave, “Sleep well, baby brother, whenever it is you decide to stop… Assisting.” With that, he sauntered away from him to begin following after the Banes siblings and their sleepy charge, leaving Castiel to resume his tentative study of Dean.

There was every chance that he had been no less dismissed than any of the others, but after Dean's brief commentary on his grim retelling there was enough left unsaid to keep him rooted. If nothing else, he felt he could at least express his regret for concluding the night on such a sombre note.

Someone tapped him on the arm, startling him from a reverie that would have been all the more embarrassing were it not for how much his audience had narrowed. It was a small mercy that only two people remained at the fireside to catch him staring, though his consolation was tempered by the fact that one of the pair was the object of his scrutiny’s younger brother. To his relief, Sam by no means appeared perturbed when he placed himself at both his and Eileen’s periphery to ease their communication.

“Are you alright?” Eileen asked, dropping her hand back to her side, “Talking about the past is never easy.”

“No, it isn’t,” Castiel agreed, “But there is something to be said of the lightness left in the wake of it. I will-- _am_ , fine.”

Eileen hummed as she glanced to Sam’s rapid gestures, and was kind enough to appear only partially doubtful when she turned back to him, “Well, in any case, I hope you know that you’re in good company, surrounded by people who picked the circus over wherever we started.” She offered him a warm, knowing smile that Sam bolstered with a slow nod of his own.

“It hadn’t occurred to me,” he confessed, somewhat heartened by the disclosure, “But I thank you for it.”

“You can thank me another time by telling me about your adventures in France,” she countered, “If your trapeze master is who I think he is, we have a lot to talk about.”

“The same goes for your law studies,” Sam added with a grin, “Dean likes to exaggerate but in this case, he might have actually managed to understate my interest.”

“I look forward to it,” Castiel said, “As it happens, the two topics conjoin rather nicely, so I would be happy to continue the discussion with you both, and perhaps in the light of day when I can better educate myself on your signs.”

Eileen chuckled, “It _is_ a little late, and the lighting could be better, for all of our sakes.”

“I guess,” Sam shrugged, “But, I did want to ask, at least on the way back to the tents--” A cascading splash sounded and the flickering glow around them was snuffed out, dousing them in a darkness only weakly pierced by the distant lamplight of the encampment. Turning toward the now absent fire, Castiel could just make out Dean and the upturned metal pail he was shaking over the now drenched kindling.

“Subtle, Dean,” Sam chided wryly.

“What?” he replied, dropping the bucket unceremoniously, “Like Eileen said, it’s dark, it’s late, so I was just trying to move things along. If anything, you should thank me for trying to make sure you’re not too tired to keep defyin’ death for tomorrow’s show. All three of you, actually.”

“Right,” Sam said, his tone leaden with sarcasm, “Your intentions were completely pure and not some big dramatic interruption to send us all off to bed before--”

“If you ask me, you’re the one being dramatic right now.” Sam snorted and pointed a finger at his brother but Eileen swooped over to his side with a yawn to break into the brewing squabble.

“Actually, I am tired,” she announced, taking hold of one of Sam’s biceps, “Castiel, thank you very much for joining us tonight.” She made an exaggerated show of raising her fingers to just below her lips and then moving her hand forward and a bit down in his direction. After a moment of squinting, it dawned on him that the gesture was demonstrative, and when he mirrored it back at her clumsily she beamed before turning on her heel to guide herself and Sam away. For his part, Sam allowed himself to be led, only once casting a look over his shoulder in Dean’s direction with what sounded like an exasperated huff. Following that brief line of sight, Castiel returned his surveyal to Dean, who had resituated himself beside the pit to stir its muddy contents with a stake he must have collected alongside the water pail. Somehow, he felt even less certain of whether he should remain or leave the other man in peace. Familial bickering was easy to recognize, but Sam’s troubled expressions paired with Dean’s responses and gestures-- even now not quite agitated, but certainly sharp-- had him wondering if the tensions weren’t rooted deeper, possibly in whatever he had said to dredge up Dean’s insight into what had led to his wandering. If that were the case, leaving things be seemed the more intelligent choice, no matter how compelled he felt to verbally set things right.

“I can’t boss you around like Sam,” Dean said abruptly, still glaring down at the ground, “But I’m definitely gonna say I told you so if you don’t get enough rest to play angel right and proper tomorrow.” Talking it would be, then.

“My apologies, Dean,” he replied, clasping his hands to fidget with his own fingers, “I didn’t mean to overstay any welcome, especially not after singlehandedly souring this evening’s mood.”

‘What?” Dean exclaimed, gaze shooting up from the soggy spot he was prodding to meet his.

“War stories and shattered family histories aren’t exactly enjoyable party fare,” he speculated morosely. “As it stands, it may have been better for the spirit of celebration if I had just stayed away. I never intended--” Dean snorted and set the stick aside, crossing his arms as he shifted to properly regard him, and as he opened his mouth Castiel prepared for whatever form of brush off Dean had prepared in his arsenal.

“First of all,” he began, “Half of the reason we were celebrating at all was because of how good you did, so you can knock it off with all that ‘overstayed my welcome’ stuff. And, for another thing, Eileen had it exactly right. There ain’t a single one of us that doesn’t have somethin’ that ran us off of the way we used to live before the big top. Broken hearts, sleazy managers, wicked stepmothers, no mothers at all…” He trailed off and Castiel squinted at him, trying and failing to discern Dean’s expression in the overwhelming dark of the night.

“Does that mean,” he ventured, “You as well?”

Dean laughed, but it was a tired, humorless thing, “Let’s just say… Sam and I are all that’s left in the whole world to put the ‘Winchester’ in ‘Winchester Family Circus,’ if ya catch my drift.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, doing what he could to sound as earnest as he meant his condolences to be.

“What’d I say about that apologizin’ stuff?” he asked without any bite.

“My ap--” Castiel began, “I will endeavor to keep it to myself, unless absolutely necessary.”

“Good,” he concluded, “so long as you remember it’s never necessary when tellin’ me something that I -- we-- asked to hear, no matter what it ruffles up in my own head. Got it?”

“I do.”

“Then you and me are golden.” Castiel nodded, still rubbing his hands against each other just short of wringing as he moved to finally return to his tent. He felt better, but he couldn’t quite shake the taut energy that refused to settle within him in spite of the understanding that had been reached.

“Cas, hang on” Dean called out, catching his elbow after a few hurried steps. Castiel glanced down at the hand on his arm and then up at Dean, suddenly afraid that if his focus lingered too long upon the point of contact that it would disappear. Sure enough, once it was clear they had one another’s full attention, Dean looked away and released him to rub his hand over the back of his neck.

“I just, uh,” he fumbled, “I guess I wanted to say, um, thanks.

“For?” he asked, tilting his head.

Dean waved his free hand in front of him almost helplessly “Well, for tonight, sure, but also... Just bein’ a part of this like you mean it, even with the with things that aren’t part of the show-- Like the fire and the story telllin’. That kinda thing means something, especially to folks like us. So, like I said, thanks.” There was a faint, unpleasant pang in Castiel’s chest. Here Dean was thanking him for his trustworthiness, his honesty, and yet he had only provided so much of it. The logical part of his brain said that those missing pieces were irrelevant to this new endeavor, and the kinships he was forming therein. At no point had he assumed any kind of false role or presented as anything other than himself. But the passing stab of guilt reminded him that his choice of partial disclosure was not without its self-serving elements, chief among them the notion that acceptance within the troupe--with Dean-- would be that much harder won should everything come to light too soon or at all. These conflicting truths momentarily warred within him, but ultimately equal parts rationality and selfishness won out, assisted in no small measure by the warmth of the ringmaster’s appreciation.

“It was and continues to be my pleasure.” he intoned firmly Dean let out a second and more genuine laugh, the grin of it still firmly in place when he at last allowed their eyes to meet again.

“Something else we’re gonna have to work on, pal,” stretching an arm out to gently swipe at his shoulder,“You don’t have to be near as polite now that you’re a side-show act like the rest of us.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He felt a smile forming at his own lips and for the barest of seconds they stared at one another, the same charge that always built between them. Only this time it felt as though it was railing against their usual stagnancy, and asking things of him that he wasn’t sure he had the courage or the right to claim.

Dean cleared his throat and took a step back, “Good, that’s--you do that. Meantime, I gotta finish clearin’ all this up, and you really should get some shut eye. Now that I’ve seen what you can do I expect somethin’ twice as good tomorrow.” He winked, and it was enough to keep his smile from completely waning in the face of Dean’s familiar tactics of retreat.

“Then I suppose,” Castiel asserted thoughtfully, “I should do my best not to disappoint.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean said, crouching to collect the discarded bottle. “‘Night, Cas.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” he returned, and with nothing remaining to prolong their interactions at last turned campward. There was still an unfinished quality to it all, and the passing guilt he had felt was not so far from him to have lost its sting. But the fondness that had seemed to permeate the walls Dean kept about himself, and the small glimpse he had been afforded behind them felt like a kind of progress, enough of it to quell his burgeoning need to close the space between them. But only just.


	7. Passing Leap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was all Cas, so this one's Dean heavy...

The second show in Jefferson managed to be even better than the first, and the high of it all seemed to cling to them as they moved south through Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New York. Dean couldn’t remember a time when they had all worked together so smoothly, or when morale had been so consistent, particularly when it came to his own mood. If any of them asked, he would have given sole credit for his elevated spirits to how well the new lineup was being received, but that would have been a half-truth at best. Lucky for him, the entire troupe was more than content to reap the benefits of miraculously absent irritability. It wouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone if he admitted their newest act’s part in it, though the details of it would likely fail to align with their expectations.

Ever since the misunderstandings and disclosures that had surrounded the bonfire in New Hampshire, Dean had decided to find a middle ground between cold indifference and heart’s content. He couldn’t--wouldn’t give in to the risk of his persistent desires, but he could endeavor to make friends with the man who willingly put so much on the line for his show night after night. As it turned out, becoming friends with Castiel was far easier than avoiding it. He was kind, and sincere in a way he had grown unaccustomed to early in life. Even when speaking on mundane things that Castiel, for all his worldliness had somehow missed out on, things like the horror literature and concert saloon shows, Dean never once felt that as though he didn’t have the man’s full attention. In fact, the only difficulty in fostering a bond between them was that it never quite felt like enough, even though it had to be.

When they arrived in Poughkeepsie, his sense of dissatisfaction hadn’t become any less persistent, but his relative contentment in all other areas was a decent sized help in tamping it all down. The size of the first evening’s crowd didn’t hurt either.

“It’s packed tonight,” Sam murmured when Dean joined him backstage for intermission.

“Word must be spreadin’ that we've got a good thing goin’” he replied, peeking around an open seam in the canvas walls to gaze at the audience.

“Looks that way,” Sam agreed, “Guess we owe Cas more thanks than we’ve got breath for.” Dean shrugged, needlessly adjusting his top hat before crossing his arms.

“Well, sure,” he said, “Him bein’ the only trapeze act for miles around doesn’t hurt when it comes to gettin’ crowds through the door.”

“It’s not just that,” his brother corrected, “It’s all the other things that he does to help keep us on track. Working with Eileen on the rope tricks, which puts my mind at ease and then some, not to mention, helping Bobby patch up costumes and letting Charlie use his rehearsals as a test subject for her new lighting arrangements. Hell, even him bringing Balthazar along has had its benefits now that he’s shown Benny that weird hangover cure of his. Castiel being here-- it just works, you know?” Dean, in fact did know, perhaps more than Sam was even aware. All of those chores that Castiel had volunteered to assist with in the preceding months had been things he would have had to do on his own in the past, and having even a fraction of that weight lifted was one more thing that strengthened the already solid bond between them, sometimes more so than was bearable. Only, he wasn’t about to hand such notions over to his clever little brother.

“You sweet on the guy, Sam?” he deflected, “I mean, I’m not one to judge, but you sure you wanna add that to the list of things that separate you from the normal folks?” Instead of the pinched, sour glare he was expecting, Sam fixed him with a look of undisguised concern. He had slipped up, fired off a shot that could too easily be turned back upon himself, and it had blown him perilously close to what was unmistakably a conversation filled to the brim with the sentiment he fought tooth and nail to avoid.

“Dean,” he began, “Do you really--” He broke off when the lights dimmed in signal of the second half of the show’s beginning, and Dean took the opportunity to assume the cheerful mask he needed to face the audience and stave off the prying Sam was edging toward.

“Lighten up, Sammy,” he chuckled, turning toward the curtain to prepare for his entrance, “I don’t need even half your smarts to know Eileen’s it for you.”

“Oh yeah?” Sam shot back, “Because from where I’m standing, you should point some of that grey matter your own way.” Rather than respond, Dean gave a quick, mocking salute and rushed back out into the ring, eager to escape scrutiny and occupy his mind with matters he was actually equipped to handle.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” he crowed once he had reached the center of the tent, “Welcome back and thank you very much for stayin’ with us. Now, for this next act, I’m gonna need a volunteer!” As always, dozens of hands shot into the air, and Dean pretended to give each of them careful consideration before his attention fell upon the man he had planted among the sea of strangers. Castiel’s face was the picture of barely restrained apprehension, one Dean might have even believed had he not coached the expression himself, or grown to recognize the focused excitement crackling just beneath the surface of his deep blue eyes. That clandestine contradiction, not unlike a shared joke between them, was just what he needed to shake off what his thoughtlessness had nearly tumbled him into backstage, and focus upon the moment at hand. Beaming without artifice, Dean called Castiel down to the floor to begin their carefully choreographed interplay, and by the time the trapeze act was fully underway he was far too transfixed by the performance to be burdened by anything outside of the figure sailing through the air and limelights.

That was likely how it would have remained were it not for the sudden snap of one half of Castiel’s cables giving way.

A mingling of gasps and shrieks rang out all around him, and Dean’s awareness seemed to fracture into two halves that refused to reconcile. In the present, there was his friend, tilting in what appeared to be slow motion as his trapeze quite unexpectedly became a singular rope. Simultaneously echoing out from his recollections, there was his mother, plummeting from a burned tightrope, her golden hair glinting cruelly in the light of the flames that surrounded her. In both instances, real and remembered, he was too far away to be of any use, and the fire was lapping at the tent from all sides, but he couldn’t simply stand there frozen while this damned spectacle took them away from him.

Shaking himself into action, he started forward, only to find the phantom overlay of his past vanished, and in its place the sight of Castiel not crumpled on the dirt floor, but dangling from the remaining cable as Eileen reached out to him from a rope that had unfurled from above. They had been planning a version of these events for some weeks now, minus the near fatal accident, with Eileen ostensibly presenting as a second angel granting Castiel safe passage back to heaven. Now it appeared that she was his actual savior, clasping his hand to steady him and offering a second length of cord, which he transferred to with surprising grace before swinging out of the limelight.

A thunderous chorus of cheers erupted from the crowd as Eileen began her portion of the act, saving Dean the trouble of recovering enough to introduce her. Still, it was enough of a struggle to come back to himself that he barely had the wherewithal to keep everything on track once the corde lisse performance ended and it came time to usher in the finale. It was as if the explosion of feeling and memory had left a hazy, distorted veneer over his senses, one that left his grasp of his surroundings tenuous, and made carrying on with any semblance of normalcy a herculean slog. Thankfully, the show reached its conclusion without further incident, and Dean was able to regain enough control to close the evening out with a decent facade of his usual vigor. Now all that remained was to see how his troupe was faring in the wake of the near tragedy.

With the patrons at last filing out of the tent, he made his way to the sanctuary of the small backstage area, steeling himself for whatever distress may have settled over the others, and was immediately confronted with a far less sombre atmosphere.

As expected, the entire group was crowded around Castiel and Eileen, but instead of anxious murmurs or comforting words, there were congratulatory declarations, smiles and even laughter from the circle of performers. Out of all of them, only Charlie seemed to have the good sense to look at least somewhat subdued, and Castiel appeared more embarrassed than stricken over his brush with death mere moments ago. All at once, Dean’s numbness faded, and his shock began to morph into seething.

“Did I missing something?” he asked tersely, capturing their attention, but not bursting the bubble of their good cheer if their persistent smiles were anything to go by. Apparently they had grown far too used to his good moods to readily recognize a legitimate storm cloud.

“I doubt it,” Benny exclaimed brightly, “After all, you were there up close ‘n personal to see that Novak and Eileen are as quick thinkin’ as they are light on their feet.”

“Charlie too!” Dorothy added, squeezing the redhead closer to her side, “My gal got those ropes lowered before Cas barely had time to get his gears turning.”

“I don’t know that it had all that much to do with thinking on my part,” Castiel demurred, a faint blush washing over his cheeks, “More reflexes that countered my own carelessness. I didn’t feel anything off in yesterday’s rehearsals and made the foolish assumption that my equipment was in order.”

“Foolish indeed,” Balthazar threw out, because of course he had found his way back there as well, “And I can’t say part of me still hasn’t any designs on skinning you alive for that mishap, but I suppose the other part is so pleased that you scraped by that I can’t entirely discount the brilliance of it. That said, from now on I believe I will be personally seeing to it that you triple check all your rigging, for both of our sakes.”

“Same here,” Eileen said with a sharp nod, “I don’t know if I can ever move that fast again.”

Bobby huffed, “Hopefully now that this idjit’s remembered he hasn’t got any real wings, you won’t have to.” Several chuckles tittered through the huddle and Dean’s mounting anger turned white hot. 

“That’s enough!” he barked, adopting a baleful look that at last had their smiles faltering, “You all think this is something to laugh off? Huh?” They all fell silent as he glared at each of them in turn, all except Castiel. Something there simply felt too raw to tackle, and he wasn’t ready to discover exactly what that meant in front of everyone else. Besides, he wasn’t done yelling.

“I don’t know if any of you took even a second to think on it,” he continued, “But that was almost the end, of everything. Someone dies in front of an entire damned audience and guess what? We’ve killed someone, and this whole damned circus is over!”

“Dean,” Sam attempted, hands raised to sign and placate, “You’re not wrong--”

“Damn right I’m not!” he fumed, “So don’t you dare try to calm me down. All of you should be thinking on just how thin a line stands between you and this all going to hell when you can’t be bothered to do anything more than _assume_ everything’s in working order.” At this pointed jab, he finally felt bold enough to give Castiel a proper scowl, but a rough sniff and a blur of red hair rushing past him to the tent’s exit drew him up short.

“Nice job, boss man,” Dorothy spat, storming after Charlie.

“Yeah, Well at least one of you’s taking this seriously!” he called after her, trying to hold on to the fading heat of his anger. He was still burning with how they all seemed to be taking it all in stride, this thing that had almost sent his entire world crumbling around him, but he hadn’t meant to make Charlie cry.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, he waved off all the stares he could feel without returning them.

“Go on, get out of here,” he sighed, “Tomorrow we’re checking over everything at least twice. No one’s gettin’ dead on my watch.” Either sufficiently chastised or simply fed up with this reminder of the less sunny aspects of his personality, the troupe heeded his direction, shuffling past him without any further protest. On his way out, Sam paused beside him, his expression firmly placing him outside of the group that felt humbled.

“I know what this is,” he contended, “Maybe even better than you do. But you should do yourself a favor and try talking it out instead of bellowing.”

“And you should do yourself a favor a stick to knife tricks,” he threw back, stomping off before his brother could offer any more unasked for nuggets of wisdom.

As he made his way to his bunk, a fierce internal debate over just how much alcohol he was going to consume to get through the rest of the night began brewing. Too little and he'd be tossing and turning until morning, but too much and he would sleep all the way through to the next show. The longer he walked in silence, the more his recollections of catastrophes new and old made a case for the more extreme set of options, and he was all but decided on a course of action until he arrived at his tent and found someone waiting there for him.

For a beat, he and Castiel did nothing but stare at one another, and something about the fact that they always seemed to find themselves here, never taking a definite step in any direction, even after nearly having the choice snatched away from them, was enough to reignite his flagging irritation.

“Back there wasn’t enough for you?” he grumbled, pushing past him to stalk into the enclosure.

“I came to apologize,” Castiel replied, taking the lack of dismissal as permission to follow him inside, “For any appearance of taking tonight's incident lightly, and for allowing an incident to occur at all.”

“Look at that,” he snarked, crossing to his bed to dig into the luggage beside it, “You finally found something worth apologizing over. Only, sorry doesn’t erase any of what happened.”

“I know that. I only hope that you will allow me to do what I can to make up for it in the future… Provided that I still have one here.” Dean paused in his rummaging but kept his stare upon his jumbled belongings.

“You askin’ if I’m throwin’ you out?” he posed evenly, “Or just lookin’ for an opening to take off?”

“The former, of course,” Castiel said, “I--”

“I mean,” he picked up, resuming his search for a bottle, “It would make sense, you wantin’ to turn tail now that you’ve realized it ain’t all fun and games, that all it takes it one wrong move and that’s all she wrote.”

“I knew the risks, even before this evening. My concern lies in whether or not I’ve erred beyond you wanting to continue to accept the inherent dangers of my performance.” Dean scoffed, handling his possessions with increasing roughness.

“Erred beyond--!” he jeered, “Will ya can it with the fancy talk? I ain’t polite society. You want somethin’ like that, you’re better off going back where you came from.” He stole a glance over his shoulder, both hoping and fearing that he had hit a nerve, and was met with a steely gaze in return.

“Is that what you want?” Castiel asked a faint edge creeping into his otherwise impassive tone. Dean looked away again, the muscles in his jaw flexing painfully. He hated that question. For one thing, it almost never mattered, and for another there was little point in stating any of it out loud when he couldn’t have it to begin with.

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel pressed, “I’ve said what I would prefer, but I won’t overstay my welcome if that’s how you feel. So tell me, is what I almost cost you with tonight’s mishap--” The rest of what Castiel was trying to say was lost to the crash of Dean throwing down the whiskey he had just laid his hands on as he whirled to face him.

“Mishap?” he challenged, taking a step towards him, “Mishap?! Cas, you didn’t trip over your own feet or belch in front of company, you almost died!”

“I’m aware!” Castiel fired back, countering with a forward stride of his own, “What I don’t understand is why you feel entitled to be more upset over it than I am.”

“Because this outfit’s not worth your life, you stupid bastard!” he cried, “Not a single part of it deserves anymore blood, and I’ll be damned if you’re gonna splash yours all over it falling off that tightrope .”

Castiel’s features pinched into a confused squint.

“Tightrope?” he echoed.

“T-trapeze,” Dean corrected, scrambling to cover his telling mistake, “You know what I mean--”

“No, I don’t,” he said sternly, moving even closer, “Because you won’t tell me. I’ve already apologized, offered to leave, what else can I do, Dean? _What do you want_?” Beneath the pressure of all he had endured that evening and Cas’s imploring stare, something within him gave way. Reaching across the remaining distance between them, Dean took hold of Castiel’s shirt and pulled him forward to crash their lips together.

At first, Dean felt him jump ever so slightly beneath his touch, but only before swiftly responding in kind, his hands coming up to clutch at his hips and draw him even nearer. Dean was the first to let a groan slip past his lips, and Castiel seemed to take it as an invitation to jockey for lead in their heated skirmish, delve deeper into the heat of his mouth with a sinfully probing tongue. For a moment, they wrestled for dominance, spurred onward by the now unbridled heat that had been lurking within their argument, and the sounds they managed to draw from one another with every new kiss or bite. At the corner of his mind, Dean could feel something clawing for his attention, though it wasn’t until the crunch of glass beneath his feet startled him back to the senses that weren’t narrowed to down to a singular, aching point. Jerking back from the embrace, he found himself gasping not only for air, but out of an icy dread that held him even tighter.

“I--I’m sorry,” he panted, eyes darting about and away from Castiel’s blown pupils and too-pink lips.

“Dean,” Castiel said, tone measured in spite of his breathlessness, “It’s alright.”

“No, Cas, it’s--it’s not,” Dean insisted, shaking his head, “We--I--” Castiel placed a hand on his shoulder and leaned into his frantic gaze.

“It is,” he stressed, a cautious fondness melding with something like resolve, “I can readily imagine the frenzy your mind must be in, or the confusion you must be feeling, and I do not take the weight of this lightly. But I promise that I am with you in this and there is no cause for apology or fear, not with me. Not if this is something you want.” That familiar sincerity was burning in his eyes, and if Dean wasn’t in the grips of a panic, he may have had it in him to feel heartened by it. As it stood, he could only fixate on that same, awful word and blanche at its reemergence.

“What I want has nothing to do with this” he argued, brows lifted in incredulity, “Guys like me don’t get to have things like this--people like you, not to keep. So I've got no reason or right to start in on the kind of weird that won't put food in my peoples’ mouths, not when I already know how it'll end.” Castiel tilted his head, studying him with an uncomfortable intensity.

“I don’t know what rules or disciplines you’ve imposed upon yourself,” he said solemnly, “But nothing about this portends outright disaster before it’s even begun. Good things do happen, Dean.”

“Not in my experience,” he replied, a sharp, acrid taste replacing the lingering sweetness of their kiss.

“Which would be what?” he asked, peering at him quizzically.

Dean swallowed, “You don’t want that. It’s ain’t pretty and it won’t change a thing.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t,” Castiel asserted, “Tell me, what is so terrible that it has you paralyzed with self denial?” He leaned toward him in emphasis, and the combined weight of that dangerous proximity and his piercing his stare had his resolve all but collapsing. Shaking his head yet again, Dean twisted away from him, rolling his eyes up to the canvas ceiling, down to the ground, and then back at Castiel with the blankest expression he could muster. The tight feeling in his temples told him he was probably succeeding by less than half.

“Where do you wanna start, Cas?” he returned bitterly, ‘With my mother? My father for years after that? How about anyone fool or fraud enough to try and get closer than what it takes to get paid? Hell, after tonight I wouldn’t be surprised if this bunch walked away, Sam included. Blood and obligation only keep a person so long.”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel frowned, “No one here is going to abandon you, least of all Sam. And as far as your parents or anyone else is concerned, I’m sure whatever happened--”

“Didn’t have anything to do with me?” he preempted, “Wasn’t my fault? Because you’d be wrong on both counts. It did and it was, alright? Every time. Because I’ve either never been enough to hold someone, or me holdin’ on’s what made me lose ‘em. It’s happened since I was a kid, and it’ll happen like it almost did tonight and I-- I can’t--” He cut himself off, flapping his arms in a helpless shrug before dropping his gaze to his shoes. A deafening quiet fell over the tent, and were it not for the persistent feeling of being watched he would have thought he had been abandoned to stew as he had planned.

“Nothing has changed from when I entered this tent,” Castiel offered softly, “I am not going anywhere unless you ask it of me. I won’t leave you.” Letting out a laugh that could have been a sob if he allowed it, Dean turned from him fully, this time lumbering over to his cot and sinking down upon it. He was exhausted, so much so that he no longer had it within him to keep arguing or resist the words pressing their way out of him to ward off a second bout of silence.

“She used to say that too,” he said, just loud enough to be heard. At the edges of his vision he saw Castiel cross to him, and though he refused to look up from his own lap, the dip in the bedding next to him was sign enough that for the time being he meant to keep his word.

“Your mother?” he guessed, voice lowered to a soothing rumble.

Dean nodded slowly, clasping his hands together, “She and my old man ran this place after her folks passed it to them. He'd play ringmaster like I do-- only better-- and she… She could walk a highwire better than anyone I’ve ever seen.” The memories were distant but never far from his thoughts, as painful in their haziness as they were in how forcibly they lingered. Sometimes he lamented that he was forgetting her smile, other times he wondered if it would be easier not to remember it at all.

“There was an accident,” Castiel surmised, a guilty twist in his inflection, “Like tonight.”

“No,” he croaked, the worst of his recollections rising in his mind, “There was a fire that night, after one of the shows. Someone must’ve dropped a cigar or somethin’...”

“Dean, there is no earthly way that you’re to blame for that,” Castiel reasoned.

“We were in there because of me. They wanted to work me into the show, make it a real family affair. I was wobblin’ around on a rope in the dirt and she was twenty feet up tryin’ to show me the steps, and then the place just went up so fast dad barely had time to get me and Sammy out. Still-- I could see her through the smoke, and I heard her when…” He trailed off, running a hand over his eyes to drive back the telltale sting that lurked behind them. Beside him, he heard Castiel draw in a low breath, likely to bolster more well intentioned words of comfort, but he wasn’t finished. He was falling down a pit of his own making, and he had never been one to half-ass something once he’d set himself to it.

“After that,” he continued with a sniff, “dad might as well have been gone too with the way he started drinking. Every now and again he would come up for air, try to run the show, but by the time the war came around the only circus left was me, Bobby, and Sam, and the tricks we could manage between us, especially after dad up and decided to enlist. He said mom would’ve wanted him to go, to stand up for better and all that, but part of me thinks he just wanted it to kill him, do what the booze wouldn’t… Bastard didn’t get what he wanted though, not until six months after the fighting stopped and his salary got him enough rotgut to have a one-sided fight with a train.”

“I’m so sorry, Dean,” Castiel whispered, lightly placing a hand on his shoulder, and when Dean braved a glimpse at him there was no pity or boredom, just a patient focus that Dean wasn’t sure he would ever get used to, though he was slowly reaching a point where he wouldn’t mind trying.

“Wasn’t all that different,” he shrugged, though not out of the contact, shifting to fixate upon another arbitrary point within the enclosure, “I was used to him bein’ gone. This was just more permanent, and less messy. But, there was still Sam to look after and I wasn’t a kid anymore, so I took things over for real after we buried him, started building it all back up to pull my weight the only way I knew how to.”

“And you made it into something truly beautiful,” Castiel said, and Dean didn’t need to see his face to know the warm expression that undoubtedly played about it.

“We got lucky,” he demurred, “convincing’ an old friend of Bobby’s--Jo’s mom-- to let us take her daughter on the road, findin’ Eileen at a carnival down South… And I got no guarantees they won’t run off like all the other acts that’ve floated through here, ones that didn’t think enough of this kind of life to stay, or that I chased off by not leavin’ well enough alone.”

“Like you tried to do tonight?”

“Worse. We had a strong man before Benny, and his manager-- I thought--” His drew up short, gesturing between himself and Castiel in a weak attempt to convey what he still couldn’t put into words, even after the intimacy they had haphazardly shared. Another quick look found Castiel bobbing his head with unvoiced understanding, and for all his babbling he was glad not to have to dredge up all the minute and mortifying details of his missteps with Aaron.

“All he wanted was better billing for his client,” Dean sighed, “The Golem. I let him lead me around by the nose until I figured it out, and when I did, he took off with the giant I’d help make our star attraction. I almost ruined this place all over again because I forgot what my whole life’s been tellin’ me, that I’m only as good as what I can give, that I’m not enough on my own… And from the looks of it, not all that deep down, I still don’t know any better.” The words finally ran out with a shuddering sigh, and never in his life had he felt so simultaneously heavy and unburdened.

The light weight on his shoulder turned into a gentle squeeze, and then Castiel’s free hand stretched out to grip at his other arm, turning him so that they were once again face to face. The raw feeling of all he had exposed urged him to keep his head down, but a larger part of him needed what he knew he would find if he could push beyond the boundaries of his cowardice.

“I can’t speak for the past,” Castiel said, once their eyes locked, “But in the short time that I have been here, it’s easy to see that you mean the world to the people here.”

“To their livelihoods,” he granted, “Sure.”

Castiel shook his head, “You are so much more than that, to them and to me, and if need be, I’ll spend every moment afforded to me convincing you of it.”

“Better not say things like that. You’ll have a fella thinkin’ you mean somethin’ by it.” Dean chuckled weakly, his hard won gaze sliding away until Castiel caught him by the chin and gently forced it back.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he reaffirmed, “That is, as long as that’s what you want. After all, you never did say.” The thumb against his chin grazed across his bottom lip, a feather-light touch that had Dean suppressing a shiver that was only partly to do with arousal. He was slipping toward something he knew he wouldn’t be able to crawl back from, the hiss of self denials and well-earned mistrust no match for the competition that had arisen. It was stupid, reckless, but the urge to put his faith in what he knew of Castiel, to trust the look in his eyes, was almost painful. More than that, he was tired of fighting against the tide.

“What do you want, Dean?” Castiel asked, leaning forward the scantest fraction of an inch, and that was enough.

“You, he rasped, throat almost too dry to speak, “I want you.”

“Easily done.” Pressing past the remaining space, Castiel sealed their lips together in a far more tender joining than their first, and Dean couldn’t help but melt into it wholeheartedly. He still couldn’t believe this was something he truly got to have, to keep, but Castiel’s brand of argument went a long way toward at least temporarily convincing him, and in that moment he let himself feel what it was like to be allowed something he wanted.


	8. Double Cutaway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is long and kinda painful, y'all. Fun fact: the second half of it is a highly edited version of the Tumblr drabble that inspired this whole thing in the first place.

After the incident in Poughkeepsie, Castiel felt more liberated than he ever had in any of his previous wanderings, perhaps in his entire life. He had known from the outset that this venture was different, special, and his luck in being so uniquely suited to it had only been a small part of it. Here he was not only wanted, but welcomed by the men and women who had become his fellows, and with more genuine warmth than he had ever expected. But now that he was allowed to have the one thing he had once deemed all but unfathomable, an unfettered offering of Dean’s affection, this new world had bloomed into something even brighter, and the latent poet in him wondered if he wasn’t living in some beautiful, vivid dream.

The shift in their relationship brought about changes in Dean as well, though they were gradual, and perhaps too subtle for an outsider to distinguish. It began that first morning after, with a sternly self-censuring apology, alongside an offer to manage the equipment checks on his own, an overture everyone appreciated but handily declined. From there, and as they traveled further south, the differences showed through in a slackening of his usually tense shoulders, and a growing ease of smiles and laughter, both in and out of performances. His propensity to overthink and overburden himself by no means disappeared, but there was an element of lightness to his demeanor, one that more and more worked to supplant his usual tendency to close himself off and suffer handily for it.

While acutely aware of the burgeoning transformation, and likely none too blind to its cause, most of the troupe did their best not to comment upon it, as if drawing attention would break some kind of spell. Of course a few of those closest to him were incapable of completely holding back, and every now and again the likes of Sam or Jo would rib him for an overlong stare or irrepressible grin, but for the most part they were just as content as the others to see Dean happy and quietly bask in the atmosphere of his improved demeanor.

Castiel, on the other hand had no such qualms, and openly relished in the actions these differences afforded him. More than anything it was an unabashed, nearly tangible closeness between them, tempered only for privacy and decency’s sake, but more than present enough in shared looks, smiles, and quick, passing touches. If need be, Castiel could probably sustain himself on those instances alone, but fortunately it was never a choice he had to make, as in the privacy of Dean's tent those fleeting brushes invariably became prolonged and more exploratory. Mere hours before their first performance in New York City proper they found themselves in such a scenario, seated on the same cot where it had all began, hands fisted in one another’s shirts as Castiel pressed increasingly heated kisses to Dean’s reddening lips.

“I suppose,” Castiel muttered when forced to come up for air, “I should be honored.”

“Huh” Dean said, a coy smirk playing against his temporarily liberated mouth, “How d’ya figure?”

“Well,” he continued, mouthing at his jawline, “In the woefully short time I’ve known you, it’s a rare thing that distracts you from preparations for a show.”

“Makes sense, considering that you’re the rare thing distracting me… But, I mean, now that you mention it, maybe I  _ should _ give things another once over. After all, this might be our biggest show yet.” He pulled back, eyes narrowing in the beginnings of very real contemplation, but before he could get any closer to turning from respite to responsibility, Castiel shoved him down against the mattress and rolled himself on top of him. 

“Apparently, I haven’t been doing a proper job,” he mused, giving Dean’s prone form a languid onceover.

“J-job?” he stammered, green eyes still wide with surprise.

“At distracting you, my dear, beautiful ringmaster,” he explained, leaning down resume his ministrations.

“Beautiful? I think you--aah!” Castiel grazed his teeth along a spot just beneath his ear, one he had quickly learned to be one of the more sensitive areas above his waist, effectively cutting off any protests he may have been attempting to raise. He wasn’t about to give Dean’s self deprecation any foothold, particularly not in these circumstances. 

“Don’t think, Dean,” he murmured against his skin, “Just feel.” He latched on to another tender spot on Dean’s neck, taking the resultant whine and subsequent shiver that trembled through his body as a reasonable enough means of assent. From there, he began working his way down to his collarbone, alternately kissing and nipping at the meager expanse Dean’s shirt left exposed, before reaching the conclusion that the article in question was altogether too restrictive for his purposes. Momentarily leaving off his measured assault, Castiel shifted to begin pulling at the offending garment, when the brush of his thigh against an unmistakable hardness between Dean's own legs gave him complete pause. Thus far, their mutual inexperience with the unconventional nature of their pairing had kept their intimate encounters rather chaste, as each did their best to set aside both the physical and emotional ardor in favor of tending to the other’s comfort. That in mind, Castiel hadn’t been anywhere near unaffected by their progress, and knowing that Dean was similarly stimulated sent a thrill through him that he could only hope he would be able to act upon.

“Cas?” Dean said, propping himself up on his elbows, and when he lifted his gaze to his flushed face, he found his expression dashed through with the same uncertainty that had previously held them back. Emboldened by what he now understood to be their mutual lust, Castiel moved his hands down to the fastenings of Dean’s trousers and fixed him with a questioning look.

“May I?” he asked, worrying the enclosure between his pointer finger and thumb.

Dean chuckled, concern fading into a cocky grin as he dropped his head back, “Oh, now you’re a gentleman, huh? Gotta ask politely before you ravish me, Mr. Novak?” 

“Not if you don’t prefer it, no,” Castiel returned, cavalierly undoing the first button “Better?”

“Respectfully? I--” 

“Castiel! Apologies for whatever it is I’m interrupting, but we need to speak at once.” Both men stiffened in all the wrong ways at the sound of Balthazar’s voice calling from just outside the tent. 

“Of all the times for your loudmouthed brother to show up,” Dean whispered, collapsing back down to the cot.

“Perhaps if we keep quiet, he’ll leave,” Castiel suggested just as quietly, stubbornly holding his position.

“Little brother I know you’re in there!” Balthazar went on, “You’ve until the count of ten to either come out, or get decent enough for me to come in, otherwise we’re both in for something that I suspect will haunt the both--or three of us, for quite some time... One!” 

“You were saying?” Dean grumbled. In any other instance, Castiel would have insisted they wait him out. For all his supportive moments, his brother wasn't without a certain tendency toward the mischievous every now and again. That established, something in Balthazar's insistence pointed to something potentially more than frivolity.

“Just,” Castiel began, “wait here while I--”

“Two!”

“--See what he wants, and then we can pick up where we’ve been forced to leave off.”

Dean shook his head, “I really should give things another look, check on the troupe. Tonight might be our biggest crowd yet and--”

“Three!” 

“Damnit, I could kill him,” Castiel sighed, levering himself up and off of the cot to begin straightening his clothes. 

‘Four!”

“Don’t bother,” Dean replied, rising to follow suit “You’ll need your strength for tonight.”

“Five!”

“Right,” Castiel agreed, fussing with his cravat, “Fatigue wouldn’t befit an angel of the lord.”

“Six!”

“I was actually thinking about after your act, but sure, that too.” 

“Seven!” Dean winked and grabbed him by the collar to press a quick kiss to his lips and then steer him to the tent’s exit. Drawing back the canvas flap that covered the enclosure’s threshold, they found Balthazar waiting just beside the opening, poised to call out the next number in his damnable count. 

“Eig--Finally,” he huffed, flapping his arms down from where he’d crossed them against his chest, “I was beginning to think I was actually going to have to go in after you.”

“Just so we understand each other,” Dean explained, clapping a hand on Balthazar’s shoulder, “Cas’s brother or not, you barge into my tent without permission and an eyeful’ll be the least of your worries.”

Balthazar rolled his eyes and brush him away, “Understood. And now that I’ve been properly chastised, may I please have a moment alone with my brother? I’ve run into a bit of lady trouble I'd rather not broadcast beyond the two of us.” At this, Castiel surveyed him with a perplexed frown. The idea of Balthazar coming to him for romantic advice, even given the confidences they maintained, was terribly irregular. If he’d had his concerns about the true nature of the intrusion before, now alarm bells were jangling through his mind left and right. 

“No worries there,” Dean shrugged, “I’m more than happy to keep my nose as far outta that as possible. Just remember, I’ve got a show to put on and Cas is a big part of it so--”

“Yes, yes,” Balthazar cut in impatiently, “I promise, I'll return your star attraction before you get too heart sore. Fair?” Favoring him with his own skeptical frown, Dean shook his head and turned to Castiel, taking up a considerably softer look once their gazes met. 

“Show’s in a couple of hours,” he advised, “Whatever this mess is, don’t let it keep you, ok?” 

“Of course not,” Castiel said firmly, “I’ll see you soon, certainly well before the seats sell out.” He offered him his best attempt at a reassuring smile, which Dean returned almost shyly before giving his arm a gentle squeeze and heading off toward the main tent.

“How sickeningly adorable you two have become,” Balthazar quipped. Once he was sure Dean was out of earshot, Castiel fixed his attention back upon his brother, eyes narrowed again in renewed scrutiny.   
“Have you honestly come to make fun?” he asked, “Or is it as I suspect and you truly do have something to tell me?”

“I’ve already said, haven’t I?” Balthazar asserted, “Woman troubles.”

“And you expect me to believe that? Not once in our entire lives have you come to me for any form of assistance with your entanglements, and I can’t see any reason for you to begin now.” Balthazar scoffed and recrossed his arms.

“You honestly have no idea?” He marveled, “My god, you truly have lost your head to all this. And in any case, you’re wrong. There has always been one woman I’ve constantly come to you to complain of.” 

Castiel drew back, squinting at him, “Mother? But what’s she have to do with anything? We left her--”

“Precisely, we left her, to her own devices, for a pointedly vague amount of time for a revolving series of destinations. And when abandoned by one set of children…” He held a hand out to him expectantly and Castiel’s eyes widened. She had any number of friends and social diversions to keep her busy in their absence, but what their mother truly craved, and often, was the sense of control she gained from domineering over her offspring. There weren’t many of them left within her grasp, and with Castiel and Balthazar having temporarily fled beyond her reach, that only left...

“She’s come to visit Michael,” he concluded, “Here.”

“Here,” Balthazar echoed grimly, “And unfortunately the pair of them were able to spot me before I them. Perhaps this life has me losing my touch as well…” He leveled an apologetic look at him, and if Castiel’s pulse hadn’t begun to race before, it was hitting record breaking speeds now. Though the present state of their relationship left much to be desired, he didn’t fear his mother in any sense, only what she could do to the new life he had stumbled into. Even before they had taken these new and unimaginably wonderful steps, Castiel had wrestled with how to explain the entirety of his past to Dean, and to the others as well. Now, the sudden appearance of his old life was threatening to shove everything into the open without the preparation or preamble he needed. One wrong step in either direction and everything could come crashing back to the beginning, to the grey world he had lived in before the circus came to Maine.

“Breathe, Cassie,” Balthazar urged, stepping forward to take him by the shoulders, “I may have bungled the start of things but I wasn’t completely without my wits. We’re going to have to endure a luncheon with her and Michael’s brood tomorrow, but I managed to convince Mother dearest that we’ve prior and subsequent commitments and lodgings with several of my many city dwelling acquaintances. In short, she’s no intention of seeking us out for the time being-- not that she’d ever be caught dead anywhere near a circus if she could help it. My god, could you imagine? Mother eating peanuts and rubbing elbows with the likes of Garth the clown?” Castiel snorted in spite of himself and did his best to take his brother’s advice, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out of his nose. 

“Thank you, Bal,” he said, “You’ve rescued me once again.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Balthazar cautioned, releasing him with a quick squeeze, “After all, we’ve still an entire meal to get through tomorrow. And anyway, my motives aren’t entirely selfless. For once, I don’t at all mind this adventure you’ve taken us on. I mean, the twins alone--”

“Of course you couldn’t allow a moment of sentiment to stretch too far.”

“You know me so well. Now, go on. You’ve been thoroughly forewarned, so there’s no longer any reason to keep that handsome ringmaster of yours waiting any longer. That is, unless you want to make him sweat a little.” He flashed him a wicked grin that had Castiel mirroring his brother’s earlier gesture, rolling his eyes as he turned and started toward his own tent to get ready. 

“Oh, and Cassie?” Balthazar called after him. He paused and glanced back over his shoulder expectantly.

“For what it’s worth,” he continued, “ I think he’s up for hearing about all of it, given the proper conditions.” Set off balance for the second time that day, Castiel could only nod and resume his retreat to his quarters. He understood completely that he was only forestalling the inevitable, that the entire truth needed to come out and soon, but at least now there was still a chance he could unveil history on his own terms. If only for now, he could rest easier in the notion that a disastrous crash of old and new could be avoided, no matter how narrowly. 

* * *

That evening the crowd was bigger than they had drawn in years, and the show was received spectacularly, without a hitch or incident, but Dean could still tell something was off with Cas. From the moment he had set foot into the ring for the beginning of their act, he had seen something distant in his eyes, some cloying preoccupation that he hadn’t been able to shake off between their parting at his tent and the start of the performance. At first, his primary concern had been with the man’s ability to safely carry out his trapeze routine with his head half in the present, but once he managed to execute his maneuvers without a single flaw, Dean turned to pondering over just what could be the source of the trouble. 

If he were a betting man, rather than a hustler, he would have placed the solid odds on the inciting incident laying squarely within whatever problems Balthazar had brought to his attention, though he couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t played his own part in whatever cloud had fallen over Castiel. The last few weeks had been more than he had ever hoped for, but it was still too young to fully unburden him of the doubts he held about himself and his right to any lasting happiness. Conversely, it was his current taste of that same elusive happiness that made him want to try braving conversation instead of his usual obstinate, worried guessing games. There was still fear, a fair amount of it in fact, but he wanted to try to get to the root of things before he allowed his pessimism to take hold and ruin everything, for Castiel’s sake, and perhaps even his own. 

His resolve as firm as it would ever get, he headed straight for Castiel the moment the show and his congratulatory speech to the crew were over, getting as far as locking eyes with him before Charlie bounded in between them. 

“Dean!” she chirped, “You’ve got a very insistent fan waiting for you back in the stands.”

“Me?” he asked, raising an eyebrow, “Did she miss the actual show, where everyone else did-- Well, everything?”

“No accounting for taste, I guess,” Jo quipped on her way out, “No offense to present company.”

“Tonight was some of our best work,” Charlie threw in before a back and forth could get going, “She was probably impressed with how you ran things, which is excellent because from the looks of her she comes from money.” And there was the magic word. They had been doing well this season, but not enough for him to turn down a potential patron or investor out of hand. However, that didn’t mean he was prepared to completely give in, not when he was still worried about Cas and had already worked himself into such a froth about getting to the bottom of it.

“Alright,” he sighed shrugging his shoulders, “Tell her I’ll be right out.” With a playful salute, Charlie spun on her heel to reassure his apparently rapt audience. Leaving Dean to the thinning group of performers, Castiel bringing up the rear of the departing crowd. Shoving down any lingering nerves, Dean did his best to appear casual while chasing after him, taking hold off his elbow to still him when he came close enough.

“Tryna sneak out, huh?” he asked as Castiel turned back to him, hoping a smirk was enough of a cover for the creeping fear that may have been the man's exact intent.

“Of course not,” Castiel returned, blinking into a confused frown, “I’ve a mind to change out of my costume, and from the sound of it, you have other matters to attend to than--”

“Ah,” he scoffed, waving the assumption away, “Whoever it is, I'll have 'em on their way in no time. I ain't gonna keep you from changing but after, I mean, if you'd like… Come find me?” He ran a tongue over his lips and searched Castiel's face, resolve faltering until he was granted a small, warm smile that managed to ease and fluster him. He had been steeling himself for reluctance, maybe even a refusal, and was by no means prepared for this easy assent.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I would like that very much.”

“G-good, that's, um, good,” he faltered, scrubbing at the back of his head and fighting back a blush, “I'll-- See you soon.” Castiel's smile grew impossibly more tender and Dean had to force himself to turn away and head back toward the main ring properly, before he tripped himself up trying to walk backwards. It was strange, having his worst expectations not only unmet, but turned on their head. They still had to talk about what was weighing on Cas's thoughts, but it was almost blissful to truly be inclined to believe there wasn't something between them to blame.

When he stepped back out in front of the risers, they were all cleared of onlookers save for a lone, older woman with auburn hair and attire far nicer than the circus required. Whatever her interest, Charlie had likely guessed correctly that she wasn’t lacking in financial security. Sweeping his palms down his jacket to smooth it, he plastered on his usual grin and ambled over to her.

“Mister Winchester? she asked once they were closer than shouting distance.

“The very same,” he said, “But you can call me D.W. if ya like.” He held out his hand for her, but she merely stared at it with an intensity that was almost familiar and remained seated. Pressing his lips together to keep his smile in place, he drew his hand back and lowered down to a section of bench beside her, careful to maintain the distance she seemed so keen to preserve.

“So,” he ventured, “I take it, you enjoyed the show? I mean, if you stayin’ behind is any sort of indication.”

“It was…” she cleared her throat and somehow managed to sit up even straighter “Quite a spectacle.” Her tone, along with the pinched quality her face took on when she said it told him she hadn't necessarily meant it as a compliment, but she didn't seem incensed enough to be condemning the show's existence either.

He forced a chuckle, leaning into the assessment for the time being, “Well, I ‘spose that’s part of what we aim for. May I ask, uh, what exactly you found so… Spectacular?”

“Quite frankly, Mister Winchester,” she said, clasping her gloved hands together tightly, “I only remained past the finale of your performance to discuss my son.” 

“Your son?” he repeated, quirking an eyebrow and glancing about the room for a second visitor he might have missed. 

“Yes. My son, Castiel.” Dean’s attention jerked back to her stoic face, and with a long hard look, the earlier feeling of familiarity made sense. Her features weren’t at all similar, but the way her eyes seemed to bore into him, that was Castiel all over. He hadn’t brought up his family again after the bonfire in Jefferson, and between the telling of his history and his reluctance to speak on it a second time, Dean had inferred Castiel meant to keep it all behind him, back in Maine, in whatever house that no longer offered the comforts of a home. Yet, here it was, clearly not so content to stay where he had left it. 

“Did you,” he began warily, “Follow him here? All the way from Maine?”

“Of course not,” she tsked, “After Castiel and Balthazar left for what they claimed to be a diversionary train trip, I decided to visit another of my sons here in New York. This is all a rather fortuitous coincidence.”

“Yeah, well,” he replied, crossing his arms, “Whatever this is, if you want to see him, you're gonna have to find your own way. I'm not playin’ messenger for someone I'm not even sure he wants to see.” She tilted her head in another uncomfortably recognizable gesture, only instead of curiosity there was pity in her appraisal.

“If I wanted that,” she contested, “Believe me, he would be here. No, I wanted to speak to you, to hopefully come to an understanding, one that would set my son back on a proper path.” Dean narrowed his eyes. He already didn't like her, let alone trust her; outside of her overall demeanor, anyone capable of alienating someone like Cas was suspect in his eyes. But her implication that his troupe was somehow improper was enough to put his distaste on flagrant display. The circus may not have been an ideal lifestyle, but he'd be damned if she got to come into his world and judge it.

“Not a fan of Cas's new profession?” he prodded.

“His latest  _ distraction _ is no more distasteful than any of the others,” she explained dismissively, “it's only that in this instance, he has a great deal more at stake, and I find myself in a unique position to circumnavigate his foolishness.” 

“Well, lady,” he said, rising to his feet, “if you’re lookin’ to recruit me for whatever that means, you’ve got the wrong guy. Like I said, you got a problem with somethin’ Cas is doing, you figure out a way to tell him yourself.

“And what exactly has he told  _ you _ ?” Something in her voice needled at him just the right way, staying him when he knew he’d be better off taking his leave.

“Did he speak of the war?” she went on mildly, “Of how it hurt him, and fractured our family? How about all the journeys he took trying to hide himself away from it all?”

Dean lifted his chin defiantly, still cautious but steady, “Yep. Months ago”

“Then I suppose he also disclosed the finer details of what he left behind?” she queried, “Did he tell you he was a Shurley?” Dean let out a snort, his defensive posture faltering.

“Right,” he said, voice doused in sarcasm, “Castiel  _ Novak  _ is from one of the richest families on the coast--maybe even the nation-- and he just up and decided to join the circus? Now, bein’ in my line of work, I've heard some stories--”

“Novak is my maiden name,” she explained coolly, “He often uses it when traveling to avoid undesired attention, or individuals who would seek to take advantage. And I'm sure there have been telling signs of his identity you've simply chosen to overlook, in both my boys. Tell me, how difficult was it to convince Castiel to accept a salary for this performance? For that matter, have you never once wondered how he afforded all the travels he's no doubt told you of? And let's not discount my appearance either. I can assure you, I am his mother, and this is far from my finest attire.” Dean glared down at her, trying to find some telling weak point in the icy gaze she had him pinned beneath, but the only cracks that were forming were in his understanding of who Castiel was. He  _ had _ had to fight Cas to accept any form of wages, even now, and though Dean had never once put any deep thought into it, he couldn't fathom the kind of money it would take to travel the world over just to run from one's troubles. There were other things too, ones she hadn't even touched on, such as how Castiel’s relative pittance of a salary wouldn't have at all been able to support his brother’s fancy outings, but Balthazar seemed to want for nothing. Unwittingly, Dean had found himself at a terrible crossroads, one where he simply couldn't reconcile what he knew with what he was being told, but also could not discount the information out of hand. 

“Still doesn't explain why,” he argued, refusing to give into her just yet, “A guy with all that money, what he’d want with all this? A circus and a flying trapeze?” 

“He told you himself,” she insisted, “He needs diversion. He's craved it ever since the deaths of his brother and father. This is the latest in a long line, and while it was harmless before, this time he stands to bring himself to ruin before he comes to his senses.” 

“My, aren't us circus-folk dangerous?” he returned darkly, “Robbin’ an innocent man of his good sense, settin’ him down a path of ruination--”

“Oh stop that. This isn’t about you or your circus. Castiel has always run from his obligations, but now it’s going to cost him his inheritance.” Dean’s scowl deepened. 

“You ever think maybe he doesn’t want it? From where I stand, he doesn’t seem all that attached.” For all he had heard, all the possible lies swirling around their interactions, Dean couldn’t forget what he had seen in the months since Castiel had joined them on the road, the pleasure he seemed to take in all of it, the light in his eyes that he just couldn’t imagine him faking his way through. Nothing in those moments had felt like a brand of artifice that Cas was capable of, and for that Dean had to believe that through all this mess he had wanted to be there with him.

“Oh believe me,” she advised briefly studying her clasped hands, “He always gets attached to these little adventures and whatever pretty, passing distraction he finds along the way. But he always comes home. Always. And if he is to have any home at all to come back to, he’s got to quit this place as soon as possible and carry through with his engagement.” The ice cold feeling the woman’s presence already inspired took hold of him fully, enveloping him from head to toe

“Engagement?” he repeated in a low mumble.

“Yes to his third cousin, Rachel,” she divulged, with what Dean approximated to be sad frown, “It is a stipulation of his father’s will, and one he agreed to long before it came due. Like many a groom, he’s got a case nerves and has quite literally run to his usual source of comfort, only now his childish eccentricities put him at risk for real destitution, and not just the kind he plays at.” Dean swallowed roughly. He had supposed he could handle the other disclosures, could forgive Castiel for doing no worse than any of the rest of his family in guarding a piece of his past. But this… If enough of it were true, then he had been used, and the foundation of all they had chosen to become didn’t exist at all. He should have known better. He didn’t get to have nice things and Castiel was probably the nicest he had encountered in his entire life. 

“Why… Why are you telling me all of this?” he managed numbly, staring at her and through her all at once.

“As I said earlier,” she replied, nothing short of business-like, “I was hoping we could come to an understanding. I can tell you’ve taken a liking to my son, Mister Winchester, based upon what I’ve seen in your interactions with him during your performance, and in your attempts to protect him throughout our conversation. I admire your loyalty, your devotion. I only wish he felt the same way.” Dean flinched.

“This is an ephemeral dalliance, and while I know you don't want to believe it, one way another, the bloom will come off the rose. This season and it’s allure will come to an end, and I would rather he comes to his usual realizations here, and not miles out of the reach of family who can truly hold him to his senses. As painful a truth as that is, I can only hope that you care enough to see reason, that he doesn’t belong here and must be set to rights.” She paused, allowing room for an argument or a response, but he had neither within him at the moment. It was all too much.

Sighing, she rose from the bench and straightened her skirts before placing a hand on his arm to more effectively claim his attention.

“Take a moment. Think about what I've said, if not for my son’s sake, then perhaps for your own. This festering limb will only do more damage, the longer you leave it unshorn.” At this, she released his arm and brushed past him to the tent’s main exit, leaving as quietly as she had come, but with an irrevocable destruction in her wake. 

For several undefinable moments he stood stock still, save for the overtaxed muscles twitching in his jaw. Soon, he would break, would rage or collapse or some combination of the two, but for now he was frozen, as if the weight of all the doubts he had been conquering had crashed down upon him and trapped him in place. Or perhaps it was that, inside of his head there was no room for any call to action, only an endless, swirling maelstrom of conflicting reactions.

“Dean?”

Of course he had come. After all, he had asked him to, before.

“Dean?” Castiel attempted for a second time, and something in the way that deep, gravel-rough voice washed over him, the voice that had insisted and whispered all the now meaningless reassurances he had craved, was enough to break his paralysis. As his mother had surmised, Dean did care, and something had to be done to save them both from themselves and each other.

“Hey Cas,” he said, turning to face him with a frail smile that had no prayer of reaching his eyes.

“You weren’t in your tent once I had changed and I--” he paused, frowning, “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Oh, I’m just grand, Cas,” he reassured, shoving his hands in his pockets as they balled into fists, “Or, hey, do you prefer Mr. Novak--or no, hang on, Mr. Shurley?” Castiel had been moving toward him but this cut him off mid-step, his face rapidly growing pale, and in that moment Dean knew everything was as his mother had said.

“Where did you--” he began, only just above a whisper, “Where--”

“How long did you think you could keep it quiet?” he tossed back brusquely, “I mean, maybe in the smaller places we’ve been through, but here in the big city? You’re a sore thumb.”

Castiel shook his head gently, dropping his gaze to his shoes “Dean, I-- I had every intention of telling you, it was only--”

“Only what, Cas? You were worried folks like us would take advantage? Try to take you for all you’re worth?”

“No!” he cried, wide eyes darting back up to him, “No, I… I thought that you… You might not believe that my coming here was sincere, that before we were properly acquainted you might not understand why I would choose to leave that life behind.” 

Dean nodded, taking his own step forward, “You’re right. I don’t believe it. The thing’s you’ve got waiting for you, back where you belong? What kind of person’d give that all up for this?” 

“Someone who has lived with it and found it all at once hollow and stifling.”

“So this is what, for you? Fresh air? A vacation?”

“It’s so much more than that Dean. This--  _ you _ are everything I never thought I could have, the kind of happiness and fulfillment I could never find amongst the Shurleys and all they so falsely believe they have to offer. I’m sorry I wasn’t truthful, but my deception begins and ends with my origins.” He found his footing and crossed even closer. That same damnable sincerity was plain on his face, begging him to leave off of this path and as Dean stared into the deep blue eyes he had come to know so well, he was struck with an understanding far more powerful than either the entreaty or the revelations that attempted to stifle it. No matter the lies, or the doubt he harbored toward the pair of them, or even what truly lay in the other man’s heart, Dean loved Cas. He loved him to the ends of the Earth and back, and knowing that steadied his course to something unshakeable 

“Everything, huh?” he mused coarsely, looking him up and down, “Until you get bored of it all, right? Until you wake up and decide cheap swill and old army cots don’t measure up to champagne and feather beds. Until you remember how I measure up to everything and everyone back in the mansions your family owns and figure out that this isn’t where you’re meant to end up? Go home Castiel, back to where you belong.” Castiel’s features shuttered into something decidedly blank before twisting into something achingly determined. Were he not an expert in donning such a facade himself, Dean would have missed the hurt that flashed through before the mask went up. As it stood, the reflection of his own defenses was plain as day and all the more painful given its source.

“You–” he rumbled back tersely, “You don’t mean that. You can’t. Not after everything…” He trailed off, shaking his head again as if to clear away the dark clouds forming between and around them. Dean’s heart clenched painfully, but he fought back the gasp that threatened to come spilling past his lips and held fast. Castiel was right; beyond a shadow of a doubt he hadn’t meant a single word of it, but that didn’t change what he’d set out to do, or the fact that he absolutely had to do it. There and now, he needed to break every single one of the ties that bound them together before when it was still his choice, and not that of Castiel’s reality. More than that, he had to save Cas before he destroyed the life that he had outside of flashy artifice, striped tents, and a new city every week. Castiel Novak--Shurley-- had a place in the world and Winchester and Son’s Family Circus wasn’t it.   
“You don’t belong here,” Dean continued evenly, the timbre of his voice sounding enough like his father that he almost cringed, “I don’t want you.” Face sticken, Castiel took a step back and Dean almost believed the awful, over-wrought moment was over, until he surged forward to fist a hand in the front of his jacket and kiss him violently. For an instant, he forgot his entire purpose and kissed back just as fiercely, pouring all of his sorrow, want, and desperation into the press of their bodies.   
“Tell me to stay,” Castiel growled when they broke apart, his plea nothing less than a demand. It was all right there before him, the one thing that Dean hungered for above nearly all else, begging him in no uncertain terms to keep, keep _ , keep _ , forever, to claim the one thing that could never rightfully belong to him.    
“No,” he whispered against the chapped, pink lips, “Cas, you need to leave.” Castiel let out a strangled gasp, too-blue eyes growing impossibly wider and quickly darting away from his own, and all at once the trapeze artist– no, wayward, misplaced socialite– was shoving him away and running out of the tent without a single backward glance.    
‘Good,’ Dean thought. That was as it should be.    
With that, the stiff resolve that had held him upright dissolved and he collapsed, nearly missing the bottom-most riser he’d intended to lower himself into. Hunching forward, he pressed the heels of his hands to his stinging eyes and struggled to stave off the stilted, hitching pace his breath was mounting toward. It was all going to come out, all the agony he had brought down on his own head, but he needed to hold back the tide just a while longer, to ensure that he didn’t undo all his miserable work with a premature and far too audible voicing of his anguish.   
“Dean?” A different but still unmistakable voice called out, “I’m coming in, so last chance to warn me if I’m interrupting-- especially if Cas found you... ” Dean wasn’t sure how, but Sam must have managed to miss Castiel’s departure.    
Straightening, Dean scrambled to regain even a fraction of his earlier composure, but his demeanor was nowhere near the mask of calm he required by the time his younger brother barreled through the canvas flap cordoning off the backstage enclosure. There had been a smile on Sam’s face when he entered, but it died away the second he clapped eyes on his sibling’s broken appearance.    
“What happened?” he asked, rushing to his side.   
“Nothing,” Dean returned, certainly unconvincing but far too stubborn to give in.    
“It’s obviously something,” Sam argued, dropping down beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder, “Did you-- Did you guys have your first fight?” There was something so naively hopeful in the question that Dean felt he would burst into laughter or tears at any moment, but he somehow found the strength to swallow the hysteria and reply less frantically.   
“First, last,” he murmured, shaking him off, “Either way, he’s gone.” Sam drew back with an fond scoff.   
“Dean,” he counseled, “Listen, from someone who’s been through it, fights happen, and they aren’t pleasant, but it doesn’t have to mean--”   
“He’s gone,” he insisted gruffly, “I sent him away. Turns out, Cas is a real live Shurley and he’s got better things to do than a stupid circus act.”   
“He’s-- what? Dean that… That doesn’t make sense.”   
Dean ran a hand over his mouth, “Sense or not, it’s the truth and it’s over with.” With a nod that was more to himself than his brother, he rose up and started toward the exit Sam had come from, only to be stopped by a renewed grip on his arm.   
“Did he say those things?” Sam asked, a protective anger mingling with the curiosity in his tone, “About being above this… You?”    
“He didn’t have to, alright?” he said, turning back to him with a sigh. That’s just the way it is between his type of people and ours.” Sam squinted, anger visibly morphing into frustration.    
“Tell me you didn’t throw him out,” he challenged, “Tell me you didn’t get scared and decide for the both of you that you didn’t deserve a chance.”    
Dean rolled his eyes “ He lied, Sam, to me, to you--everyone--about who he was, what he came from.”   
“So, essentially no more than the rest of us,” Sam countered, “Damn it, Dean. Why won’t you let yourself just be happy, for once in your life?”   
“Knock it off with that bull, will ya? You all don’t want me happy, you want me nice, too busy daydreamin’ to breathe down your necks so I can make sure we all eat, or to see how most of you all have your eyes on the exits too.” This was not at all the path he had intended to take, but they were here now, barrelling toward something else and he didn’t have the power to slow it down, let alone stop it.    
Sam wrinkled his nose,“What on Earth are you talking about?”   
“I’m talking about the letters to all those law professors,” Dean asserted, “The ones you don’t think I know you write. Or the trips to the World’s Faire Charlie and Dorothy keep talkin’ about when they think I’m not listening-- or the dozens of other things you all try to sneak around me that say you’re halfway done with me and this place.”   
“Is… Is that really what you think?” Sam asked, face falling, “You think we’re all planning on abandoning you?”    
Dean shrugged, “You might be the smart one, Sammy, but I’m not that big a fool.”   
“That’s not-- Dean, I’ll admit, freely, that we all have things separate from this place. But they’re things that we want during the off-season, for when we’re all too old to keep this going, or when we’ve got kids that we’ll want to give all the chances we never got. That’s it, plain and simple,. No one’s making plans to take off on you, there’s nothing that any of us want more than for you to let yourself have something like that too--instead of trying to live Dad’s--” Dean cut him off, raising his hand to point at him warningly.   
“Don’t,” he barked, “Don’t you bring him up in all of this.”   
“I don’t have to,” Sam shot back, “He’s always there with you-- practically haunting you into thinking all these backwards things about not being more than  _ his _ dreams, and needing to be ready for people to give up on you like he did on us. Only now, no one here’s going anywhere, not unless you push them away.” Sam fixed him with an adamant glare and as much as Dean wanted to fire back, he had been cut down to the quick. Nothing he had said was untrue, especially not the last; the way he had so handily maneuvered Cas’s retreat was proof enough of that. Lowering his hand limply, he allowed the fight to go out of him, and the fatigue to take hold.    
“Dean,” Sam pressed, his expression cautiously sympathetic, “We can still fix this, all of us if you need. I’m sure Cas--”   
“No,” he concluded, with a quick shake of his head, “I might’ve been the one to turn him away but, those things I said about him havin’ a life outside of this place? That’s all still true and there’s no changin’ that. It’s... It’s why I made him go.”   
Sam let out a small, impatient huff, “Alright, but Dean--”   
“Stop. Just… All the stuff before with Dad… Mom... Maybe I can’t take it all on my shoulders, but this? This one’s on me. And just like with them, I’m pretty sure it’s gonna stick. So, if you wanna do anything at all for me, you’ll give me the space to get used to it, maybe find a way to convince the others to do the same, to just... Do what you say you’re so against and just leave me alone with it… Please.” Sam’s brow furrowed, his mouth snapping shut on whatever he had planned to say, and Dean took his silence as an opportunity to retreat, not quite running out of the tent and the misery he had found beneath it. Like an idiot, he had forgotten; Castiel had made him feel good and, in his experience, nothing like that was built to last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fun (terrible?) fact: when writing this chapter, I put "the end ;P" at the bottom of it, just to be a troll to no one.... Anyway, moving on.


	9. Half Turn

Castiel didn’t remember much after Dean had sent him away, could hardly recall the mad dash back to his tent, the frenzied scramble to collect his belongings, or the crash into Balthazar before they found their way to a carriage and headed back where he had hoped never to return. The blended, hurt, confusion, and rage worked almost like some kind of intoxicant, blurring everything as he did what he could to follow the ringmaster’s cruel and incomprehensible directive. Every time he tried to think, there was nothing but the image of Dean’s final, cold expression, and the faint whisper of ‘I don’t want you’ thrumming through his head. Even dimmer was the recollection of being ushered back into his father’s New York estate, and into his old rooms where he allowed his turmoil to collapse him down onto an oversoft and long empty bed.

So it was that when a loud knock awakened him the next day, he was momentarily confused as to where he was, the sound of fist against wood registering as something peculiar in an encampment full of tents. But then he reached out for the form that, in the past few weeks had been so often beside him, and laid hands upon the too broad, empty expanse, and it all came back to him in terrible clarity. Dean no longer wanted him, had discovered the decadently rotting tree he had fallen from and sent him back into the embrace of its thorny branches.

The knock sounded a second time, followed by the only voice he was like to respond to, though given his environs he had to imagine it was purposeful.

“Cassie, I’m coming in,” Balthazar warned, “Whether or not you’re in any present mind to speak. You know full well I’m capable of doing enough of it for the both of us, should the occasion require.” With that, the door leading to the antechamber opened and Balthazar stepped inside, his attire noticeably more refined than during their travels. Shutting his eyes, Castiel rolled away from him to face the thick, damask curtains of the bedroom’s over-large windows.

“You’ve slept straight through breakfast you know,” he went on, and Castiel felt the mattress beside him sink beneath his brother’s weight, “Mother did her best to act as though she wasn’t appalled but she was dreadful in that quiet way of hers all morning, you should have seen it.” He paused, no doubt waiting for Castiel to respond, but he kept his own peace, clutching at the covers to pull them even tighter around his shoulders. 

“Castiel,” he resumed, all the humor gone from his tone, “What happened last night? You were incoherent beyond the demand that we come here, of all places. I-- I haven’t seen you like that since father died.” Castiel sniffed but otherwise held his silence.

“I swear, if that bowlegged curmudgeon did anything to hurt you, I promise you, I’m not above physical harm.”

“No,” Castiel grumbled at last. He knew it was a largely idle threat, but every now and again Balthazar’s protective instincts surprised him, and he needed to make things clear.

“He speaks!: Balthazar proclaimed, “Any other words you would like to add? Perhaps a full sentence as to why I shouldn’t rain vengeance upon your darling ringmaster?” Heaving a sigh, Castiel pulled back the covers enough to be heard without any kind of muffling.

“Dean--” Castiel swallowed back a painful lump that suddenly rose in his throat, “He found out that I’d kept my parentage from him and he told me to leave. He can’t be blamed for reacting so strongly to my betrayal, so you are to leave him alone as he requested.” With that, he moved to bury himself beneath his quilts once more, but Balthazar caught him by the shoulder to not only stop him but turn him so they were eye to red rimmed eye.

“He threw you out over an omission of truth?” he asked, voice pitching up in disbelief bordering on outrage, “Cassie, do you understand how ridiculous that is?” Castiel shook his head, turning over onto his back and closing his eyes, clearly seeking out punishment when all that brought him was vague after images of an angry, beautiful face he would never see again.

“He trusted me,” he muttered, “And I rewarded that with deception.”

“That whole bloody show is about deception” Balthazar exclaimed, far closer to his ear than he would have liked, “Or have you forgotten already, O fallen angel of the lord? Not to touch at all upon that family gathering by the fire in Jefferson. Each and every one of his performers has their secrets, so what makes you so awful? The trust father left you, that you’ve barely touched? Your uncontrollable relation to a handful of stone-hearted snobs and mad men? Because trust me, from the little I’ve gleaned, many others have much worse lurking in their origins, the late John Winchester included.”

Castiel opened his eyes with a wince, “I can’t speak for the others’ circumstances, I only know the depth of the faith Dean put in me, and how badly I abused that in lying.”

“So what, you’re going to just wallow here? In this dreary estate? I’d just as soon see you go mountaineering again.” Castiel tilted his head to squint up at the ceiling. He hadn’t at all thought of what he would do past the moment he had been cast out of the Winchester Family Circus, had only vaguely imagined all he was now barred from; not just the smiles, touches, kisses he had forfeited, but the joy of easy camaraderie and elation of performance. However, the specifics of Balthazar’s objections had him immediately certain of one thing: the idea of running away again, of looking for a place to belong when he had already gained and lost it, was now utterly abhorrent, and there was likely no distraction that would suit him any longer.

“Honestly, Cassie,” Balthazar stressed, “The longer you stay here, the more they’ll try to prod you into terms. On their own, they’re each quite persistent, but together Michael and mother are a dastardly formidable pair.” Castiel peered at him out of the corners of his eyes. There was an option he hadn’t considered since before the war, embracing the trappings of his birthright. He would most likely hate it, every moment of every day, but then again there was nothing in it that could break him any further than last evening.

“Perhaps,” he reasoned, sitting up and shoving back his blankets, “I ought to save them the trouble of bargaining.” Taking a steadying breath, Castiel climbed out of bed, stretching his grief tensed limbs and ignoring Balthazar’s gape-mouthed stare.

“Have we talked enough that I might have a moment’s privacy to wash and dress?” he asked, moving to the washstand at the corner of the room.

“You’re not serious,” his brother squawked, bolting to his side.

“Why not?” he argued, an edge creeping into his voice, “I tried it my way and it has been nothing but one disaster after the next.”

“Cassie, you can’t--”

“Balthazar, please!” He whirled toward his brother, momentarily letting the full breadth of his grief take shape across his face, “You--you cannot save me, not from what is already done. There is nothing left to battle but my own failings, and I am begging you to leave me to them.” Balthazar’s incredulity dropped away to a mournful resignation.

“Alright, baby brother,” he conceded, taking a step back, “Have it your way.” He reached for him, then seeming to think better of it, dropped his hand and retreated through the way he had come.

Granted the miserable peace he had requested, he dressed thoughtlessly, allowing instinct to take over much in the way it had when he first encountered the circus in Maine. But now there was no burgeoning excitement or sense of right to it, only grim resolve, along with the hope that he would be able to find some of the iciness others of his family so easily adopted and use it to seal his heart against any further pains.

* * *

There wasn’t a show the day after Castiel left, not in any connection to his departure but because Dean had planned it that way in advance, staggering the shows to allow for the sightseeing and shopping New York City offered. By his reckoning, it was the last bit of good fortune that he had, as it gave him a full day’s opportunity to be selfish, and bow to the grief that consumed him by drinking himself into a stupor the moment he returned to his own tent. The next day he would have to face everything, his troupe, their mutual loss and the stupidity that had caused it, but for now he was more than content to drown the voices of responsibility in his dwindling stores of alcohol.

By his hazy understanding of time beneath a deluge of swill, he whiled away the morning and most of the afternoon in staving off his suffering, and would have been content to remain just shy of proper awareness well into the approaching evening, had a torrent of another kind not asserted itself upon his wallowing.

Dean shot up from his bedding as an ice cold wetness splashed over him and his cot, dragging him out of his whiskey-induced fog in one fell swoop. Sputtering and blinking back to full consciousness, he glanced about the dim, canvas dwelling and found the likely architects of his rousing standing at the foot of his bed, one looking just as stubborn as when he had last seen him, and the other vaguely apologetic behind the now empty bucket she wielded.

“W-what the hell?” he coughed.

“Sorry,” Charlie replied with a guilty wince, “But Sam said you were being--

“Completely unreasonable and needlessly self-destructive,” Sam chimed in.

“-- and based on how we’ve found you, I can hardly disagree.” He fixed her with a belligerent glare but she pursed her lips and lifted her chin defiantly.

“Look,” Sam continued, “You said to leave you alone and I did, for as long as it took for you to drink yourself stupid, but now you’re going to get up so we can fix this. And in case you’ve got a mind to stumble out of here, we’ve got Benny and Dorothy just outside, not to mention-- ”

“Sam,” he sighed, shutting his eyes in an effort to steady himself, “I told you, there ain’t no fixin’ this. Cas is gone and he’s better off so--”

“And what on Earth has you convinced of something so dreadfully incorrect?” an unexpected lilt challenged. Dean ran a hand over his face, letting out something between a huff and a growl before turning his attention to the entrance of the tent where Balthazar had planted himself.

“Thought you Novaks--Shurleys--,” he fumbled around grumpily, “--Whatever you’re callin’ yourselves--would leave me in peace now that Cas is back in the lap of luxury.”

“Yes well,” Balthazar clipped, “I’d made an exception to come down here and wring your fool neck for what you’ve done, but your family stepped in and convinced me to settle for an explanation as to why you’ve gone and made my brother so miserable.”

“Miserable, huh?” Dean muttered, shoving down too-fresh memories of Castiel’s stricken face, “I’m sure a real bed and that fiancee of his’ll have him cheered up in no time.”

“W-wait,” Sam stuttered, confusion bordering on the accusatory as he turned to Balthazar, “Cas has a fiance?”

“Of course not!” Balthazar objected, glancing between the two of them, “And I haven’t the faintest idea why your brother would think so.”

“Because that’s what your own damn family told me!” Dean barked, allowing his frustration to take the reins.

“Winchester, what are you on about? When would you have--”

“There was a woman from yesterday,” Charlie cut in, eyes narrowing contemplatively, “She stayed after the show and insisted on talking to Dean. I thought she had to be an investor because everything she was wearing looked like it cost more money than I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

Balthazar’s face slackened, a short laugh puffing past his lips, “Mother. Well that’s a large part of the mystery solved.” Shaking his head, he moved over to the chair that doubled as Dean’s coat rack, carefully hanging his discarded hat and coat over its back to settle himself upon it.

“Winchester,” he chided, “there’s no fiancee, I mean, unless you and my brother had planned to solidify your particular brand of engagement with some kind big top ceremony.” Dean squinted at him, the first threads of uncertainty working their way through his resolve.

“So there’s no cousin Rachel pining away in one of your mansions?” he asked.

“Cousin Rachel and Castiel have met a grand total of two times in their lives and spoken even less. Last I heard she was off with some stuffy baron from Ipswich and planning on returning to Europe.”

“What about the inheritance?”

“What about it? As far as I know each of us still has one, and Cassie’s is largely untouched, frugal man that my brother is. Why? Did mother manage to convince you his being here imperiled that as well?”

The scowl on Dean’s face flickered as a series of all too easy realizations stabbed at his gut. He knew Castiel better than the picture his mother had painted, even before than man himself had tried to explain himself, but he had let his far from dormant insecurities override all sense.

“She handed me a pack of lies and I bought every one of ‘em,” he marveled, slumping forward to rest his hands on his knees.

“If it’s any consolation,” Balthazar replied, “she’s quite good at that sort of thing when she wants to be. And given how big of a threat Dean and his little circus are, I’m sure she wanted very badly.”

“Threat?” Charlie repeated, nose wrinkling.

Balthazar sighed, slouching deeper into the chair, “Just as he told you all from the start, Castiel’s been running away from the family since war’s end and our father’s passing. Before the advent of either, mother had been grooming him and our two eldest brothers for her perfect triumvirate, the heirs best suited to inherit and manage the Shurely empire. Only, he came back unable to stomach how cold and mercenary the lot of them were in running what father’s built and he’s been straying further and further out of her grasp ever since. Up until now, she likely believed it to be a kind of phase she could wait out, particularly since none of his previous ventures have suited him well enough to keep him away, but it appears one glimpse of how genuinely happy Castiel is here was enough to break her of that illusion. Hence her rather forceful tactics and fanciful lies.”

“And I handed him right back into all of it,” Dean said numbly.

“Shoved him more like,” Balthazar corrected, straightening up, “And now that we’ve all caught one another up, you’re going to pull him out again.” 

“Right,” he returned snidely, “Except after everything I said, I don’t think your brother’s ever gonna want to see me again.”

“Of course he wants to see you, you poor, perfect idiot, he’s in love with you.”

“And you love him too, Dean,” Sam added, “Too much for me to let you give this up without a fight.” Dean dropped his gaze to his lap, ignoring Balthazar’s jab to wrestle with the dangerous stirrings he and Sam were attempting to rile within him. Neither he nor Castiel had taken the time to voice the depths of their feelings for one another, Dean having just come to the realization of his own as he was pushing the other man away, and to hear even a rumor that his affections were fully returned was like a balm upon his raw nerves. But to confirm that there was any truth in it at all, and any chance at reclaiming the future he had been manipulated into shattering, meant taking a leap that both elated and terrified him. Having to let Castiel go the night before had been a pain unlike any other he had experienced, and should this already slim chance at reconciliation fail, he wasn’t entirely sure he could bear it even half as well as he had the first time. Yet, to truly let any hope of a future with him slip from his grasp without even an attempt at one final try could quite possibly be just torturous in the end, perhaps more so now that he was aware of Castiel's own turmoil. Sooner rather than later, he was going to have to make a decision, to choose which notion motivated him more, but at the moment he couldn’t say with any certainty whether hope or fear would win out in the end.

“You’ve no idea how miserable he is back in that mansion,” Balthazar pressed, as if sensing the direction of his thoughts, “How much he’s languishing. It’s only been a day and it’s as if he's already turned to stone.” Shaking his head, Dean rose up from his damped linens to begin pacing the enclosure’s dirt floor.

“Even if--” he began, “If he wanted to see me again--”

“Which he does,” Balthazar insisted.

“--What am I supposed to do? Rush over to the family estate and play Romeo under his window?”

“Well, I was thinking something a bit more calculated… Say breaking into the unabashedly celebratory gathering mother plans to throw tomorrow evening.”

“A party?” Sam clarified, “Just… For the hell of it?”

“Yes. It’s meant to be in honor of Castiel returning to the fold, but as I see it, she’s quite proud of this particular victory and wants to rub it all in properly.”

“You’re missing the bigger issue, Sam,” Dean pointed out bluntly, “It’s tomorrow night. As in, the night of our last show in the city?

“Dean Winchester,” Charlie scolded, crossing her arms tightly, “Don’t think for one second we’re going to let you use us as an excuse ”

“It’s not an excuse,” he replied, pausing in front of her, “These shows are food in your mouths and savings for the off-season. No way am I gonna put that second to me and my mistakes.”

“Dean, it’s one night,” Sam said sternly, “I think we can manage without you.”

“After losing one of our star attractions?” he asked, glancing at him over his shoulder, “Not a chance, Sammy.”

“Well then,” Balthazar declared, rising from his own seat, “I suppose I’ll just have to buy out the show. Then the entire affair’s a non-issue.” All three of them turned to stare at him.

“You--you can do that?” Charlie asked.

“Why not?” he returned with a smug grin, “I am a Shurley, firmly planted in the-- what did you call it? The lap of luxury? And besides, I believe it’s going to take all the help we can find to ensure my brother and your bullheaded ringmaster don’t work against themselves.” Charlie clasped her hands together, eyes rounding.

“We’re going to a ball!” she cried.

“A masquerade actually. And that all depends on, DW here. Tell me, Winchester, do you care enough to rescue my baby brother? Or has your ardor been nothing but another of your acts?” He raised an eyebrow at him, the challenge of the gesture and the words that preceded it delivering a final blow to his hesitancy. Selfish hopes and risks to his own heart aside, he didn't have it within him to leave Castiel to the wolves.

“I’m all in,” he asserted, “But I gotta warn you, fanciest thing I own is that hat and jacket over there.”

Balthazar scoffed, his mild show of derision just falling short of masking the relief that flashed through his expression,“I figured as much. Have no fear, I’ll see you properly attired and ferried past my elder brother’s illustrious threshold, but after that, the work falls to you.”


	10. Reverse Suicide

“So I said, ‘if you truly believe Wellman Industries will offer you a handsomer salary, then by all means take your expertise to their generous employ.’ And he spat at my feet and left with a promise to do just that.”

“And you really let him talk to you that way, Dick?” a woman in a glittering silver mask asked. 

“Of course,” the man chuckled, “You see, just hours prior Roman Enterprises acquired Wellman in its entirety. It’ll be quite the lark to see the look on his face when he shows seeking work in yet another of my offices.” Castiel fought back the urge to roll his eyes, and give away the distaste that his own mask was disguising. He’d been keeping to the fringes of both the ornately prepared ballroom and its conversation, but happening upon the dreadful snatches of it were inevitable given that his mother had peopled her festivities with as many unprincipled socialites as one could find in the whole of the city.

When she had announced her plans to hold a welcome home celebration for him, he had briefly and foolishly wondered if she was truly attempting to raise the dour spirits he had put on full display at their luncheon. But the moment he’d been made privy to her guest list, he realized that he had been quite foolish in assuming the party was for anyone but her, or anything short of an attempt at re-inoculating him to the world he had fled after the war. 

He had done his level best to remodel himself after his more rebellious siblings, never straying closer than their meagre estates in Maine after the tragedies of war and the loss of his father had unbridled his mother’s Machiavellian qualities and snatched the blinders from his eyes that he might see the full spectrum her cruelty in all her affairs. But even with both eyes fully opened, he hadn’t the knack for escape that Gabriel, Anna, and even Balthazar did, as evidenced by his inability to stay well and truly away, even when finally in the embrace of a destination and a person that had so effortlessly begun to feel like a real home. Then again, perhaps it was not a lack of skill, but the deficiency of its strength against his mother’s will. She had always been grooming the three of them, him, Michael, and Raphael, to head up the company in their father’s stead, while she quietly puppeteered their management in the interests of the company and the company alone. And, as it had been for the whole of Castiel’s life, when she set her sights upon something, she was never to be denied. 

“Castiel Shurley, is that you?” a voice rasped out, breaking him from his grim reverie. Gaze refocusing, he cast around for the source of the inquiry and found himself confronted by a short man in burgundy devil’s mask with a generous-sized drink in hand..    
“Forgive me,” he continued, “I understand the entire point of a masquerade is an air of mystery, but I’d recognize that stiff posture of yours anywhere, even if it has been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“It has indeed,” Castiel returned with pointed politeness, “... Fergus?” It had been quite some time since he had been forced into a room with the diminutive coal baron, but he remembered him well enough to know he hated his first name rather vehemently.

“Crowley will do just fine, Cassie,” he corrected, his own air of formality sharpening, “But let’s skip all of the dreary re-introductions, and catch up properly. Where have you been keeping yourself these days?” 

“Maine, mostly,” he replied, trying to keep his responses dull enough that the other man might be encouraged to move on.

“Ah yes, the old family estate. But only part of the time, no? By your mother’s accounts, you’ve been traveling hither and yon on business ever since the grand departure of your father--may the lord rest his soul.” Castiel pressed his lips together, relenting with a curt nod. He had forgotten the man’s talent for keeping his nose in everyone else’s business.

“And according to your darling mother” Crowley added innocently, “You’ve been scouting business ventures abroad. Honestly, I’d had no idea the Shurley lineage had eyes on world domination.” Castiel raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious for the first time in the entirety of the evening. It wasn’t unlike his mother to concoct false narratives to suit her purposes, but it was a rare occasion that he stood in any position to dispel them. He knew that Crowley was fishing, babbling with the sole purpose of digging up information to file away for later, but for once he felt inclined to let him have it. He had been beaten down into returning to the family fold and accepted his fate, but being so trampled had also afforded him a kind of unique fearlessness in the face of his mother’s potential disapproval. 

“Actually,” he contended, “My travels have been more leisure than business. In fact, I’ve only just returned from India and was only able to join mother and Michael by chance.”

Crowley’s ever-present smirk broadened into a wicked grin.

“Is that so?” he replied brightly, “My, my, but that  _ is _ interesting-- not to mention elucidating given the last minute invite to this little gala, and the rumor of the peculiar diversions that preceded it.”

Castiel frowned,“Diversion?” 

“Oh yes,” he confided, leaning toward him conspiratorially, “A few of the city’s gossips surmised she was in search of a rare respite from overseeing her late husband’s estate when she was spotted about town this week, but some of the bolder ones are convinced she bypassed the shopping district to go galavanting about a recently landed traveling circus of all places. I could make neither head nor tails of such a wild claim until now, but there’s perhaps some sense in it if she was looking to take her mind off your listless wanderings-- no offense meant, of course.” Castiel ignored his scheming and weak apologies, as his world narrowed down to the revelation that had come before them, the one far too coincidental to be mere rumor. His mother had been to the circus here in New York--his circus-- and had taken in the same performance that had ultimately become his last. 

Muttering a terse apology of his own, he brushed past Crowley and began making his way through the crowd of masked revelers and servants in search of her, a mounting rage buzzing in his ears. 

Were it anyone else, he would have been mad to consider someone had made an effort to track him down and somehow spoil the new life he had been building, but that level of manipulation was one of the many specialties he’d come to recognize in his mother after the war. Uncooperative land owners, contracts inconvenient to her family’s business dealings, all fell away beneath her maneuvering, much in the way distracting toys had gone missing, and overly comfortable friends had stopped calling in his younger years. He had been so happy with the circus--with Dean-- that he hadn’t been wary enough of her proximity to it, or the likelihood that one look would have her seeing it as an obstacle she needed to topple for the sake of her designs upon him. He was primarily at fault for not thinking of it all sooner, but there was also no hardship in resting a healthy portion of the blame on Naomi Shurley  née Novak.

After a few tense moments of searching, he spotted her towards the center of the crowd, Michael at her side as she held court over a typically rapt audience. Clenching his jaw, he squared his shoulders to redouble his efforts to reach her, only to be stopped in his tracks by a hand on his arm.

“And where are you off to in such a hurry?” Balthazar asked once he’d spun him around, squinting at him from beneath a silver half-mask, “Had enough of the costumed revelry already?”

“Nearly,” he grumbled, shrugging out of his grasp, “I’ve just one thing to do before I take my leave of all of it.” At this, he turned away and continued stalking forward in spite of the entreaties called after him, and before long he had pushed himself to the front of his mother’s tight-knit audience. 

“Castiel!” she beamed as her eyes fell upon him, her smile lopsided beneath a frightfully apt mask that only covered the right half of her face.

“Mother,” he returned flatly.

“We were just talking about you,” she gushed, either missing or ignoring his cold affectation, “And how this little soiree is only fractionally representative of how glad we are that you’ve returned from your journey abroad.”

“Well, Mother,” he reasoned, cocking his head in mock contemplation, “I happen to think you’ve outdone yourself.” He paused, giving her a chance to relish in what she likely believed to be the apex of her victory.

“In fact,” he went on, “I believe this event of yours is so lavish, that it is capable of dual purpose, not only celebrating my return but properly sending me off when I depart yet again-- or rather, once and for all-- this very night.” 

“Brother,” Michael began, the warning clear in his tone. Killing Lucien hadn't ruined him in the same way it had Raphael. He was impatient and mercenary, rather than cold and deadened, and one nod of approval from their mother would no doubt see him hauled from the room. He took a step forward to hint at as much, but their mother held her hand up to still him, her expression placid save for the faint, baleful look in her eyes that each of her children knew all too well. 

“Castiel,” she said evenly, lips still quirked upward, “Forgive us, but I believe the humor you picked up in your travels seems to have fallen short of its mark.”

“No humor, Mother,” he asserted, calmly unclasping his own mask, “But in case my point was lost in overly delicate language and misunderstanding, let me make myself perfectly clear: after tonight I have every intention of never seeing you ever again. As of now, I quit this abominable business you’ve twisted father’s legacy into and renounce any ties that I have to it.” A series of whispers hissed through the crowd as he took another beat to stare her down, waiting for her inevitable reaction, and soon enough, ever so slightly, her lip began to curl.

“Go then” she instructed, “Travel the wide world yet again. Maybe this time will be enough to convince you that there is nothing out there for you. You belong here, Castiel, I’m only sorry you’ve chosen to embarrass yourself in front of all our guests rather than face reality.” 

“And I would rather be a laughing stock than be mired in your poison for one moment more. Mark my words well, Mother, and don't come looking for me. I would hate for you to have to debase yourself by visiting another circus.”

She flinched and that was enough for him. He knew she would never fully admit to what she had done, even if he talked until he was blue in the face, but that was fine. In truth, he didn’t want to know what she had said to inspire Dean’s rejection, had no desire to discover how much or how little it had taken. All that mattered was that he was sure she was the true architect of his misery, and he had stopped it from ever happening again.

Amidst more ripples of overt and shocked muttering, he turned his back and began pushing his way through the crowd once again to make his exit, ignoring all attempts by curious or scandalized guests to draw him aside. Before long, he at last found himself outside of the ballroom and headed for his quarters to collect his things, no plan in mind but to make good on his promise to put the toxicity of his family tree behind him as swiftly as possible. Of course, he knew the place he most wanted to be, but even with what he now knew, he wasn’t sure he would be able to salvage what his mother had helped him to destroy. 

When he was most of the way up the main hall’s grand staircase, he heard the slap of footsteps against marble floor behind him, alongside the telltale huffs of someone fighting to reclaim their breath, and he paused in his assent with a weary groan. 

“I’ve said all I needed to say in that ballroom,” he began, “Whoever you are, leave me alone.”

“Well,” an impossibly familiar drawl returned, “I was hoping you’d have a little more to say, but I guess I’ve earned it if you don’t.” Castiel whirled around, breath catching as his eyes fell upon the very man who had been on his mind, clad in full evening dress with a deep green mask pushed up high on his forehead. 

Meeting his gaze sheepishly, Dean offered up a small, nervous smile,“Hi, Cas.”

* * *

For a moment, all either of them did was stare at one another. Dean had meant to say more, to start off stronger than he did given his profession, but having Castiel this close again had easily robbed him of the bulk of his senses. Not that he had much of a plan left to begin with.

All day, through Balthazar’s whirlwind of preparations at barber shops, tailors, and even a mask fabricator’s studio, Dean had struggled with plotting out a way to get Castiel alone for long enough to hear him out. Only, by the time Balthazar had slipped him and the others in through one of mansion’s servants entrances, they had come upon Castiel valiantly rescuing himself from his mother’s clutches and securing his solitude so handily that Dean almost lost him to it in his haste. 

Now, standing before him, with all the opportunity he never thought he’d have, Dean was for once in his life at a loss for words. 

“How did you get here?” Castiel asked, slowly moving down the steps toward him.

“Uh, your brother,” Dean replied, running a hand through his hair, “He took care of everything--the clothes, the masks… Even gettin’ us in since, you know, we weren’t invited.”

“And why are you here?” he pressed, squinting at him as he continued to draw nearer, “After everything you said...”

“I-- I know, what I said, but-- Cas, I’m sorry. From what I saw in that ballroom, I’m pretty sure you know she had a part in it, but your mother, she handed me a buncha lies and I--”

“You believed her. You believed whatever horrible things she said and decided I wasn’t worth your time.” He reached the ground floor with something not unlike a stomp, lips pinching together angrily.

“No!” Dean insisted, “She made it sound like I was gonna cost you everything if I held on and I couldn’t be the reason you had nothing left but me and a few peanuts. I just… I figured in the end, with everything you were used to, it’d never be enough.”

“So you decided for me.” Castiel concluded, closing the gap between them to prod at his chest, “Without asking me, or believing me when I’d told you what I wanted.”

“I know,” he conceded, reflexively jerking back from the rough jab, “A-and I’m sorry. I just didn’t think--”

“I wanted you, Dean. The circus, the troupe, all of that too, but especially you.” He pushed in closer, taking hold of his lapels, and Dean could only lick his lips nervously, torn between his fear of where the conversation was heading and the allure of their sudden proximity.

“W-wanted?” he babbled, “As in, past te--” 

Castiel cut him off with a growl, “You are infuriating.” And before Dean could respond any further he crushed their lips together, nearly toppling them both over with the force of it. This time, he pushed back into it, doing all he could to convey his want and erase any question of it that may have remained, but somehow even that didn’t feel like enough. Minutes ago he had been half-convinced he had lost this forever, and now that he had miraculously been proven wrong, he owed it to both of them to do things properly.

“I love you,” Dean whispered when they pulled apart for breath, “I know that doesn’t change anything that’s happened, but I needed to say it all the same.” Castiel’s face softened, eyes closing as he pressed their foreheads together and lifted his hands from his jacket to cup the sides of his face.

“I love you too, Dean,” he murmured, “And you will always be enough for me. I… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about all of this earlier-- about my family-- I was so worried about belonging that I--”

“Hey,” he countered gently, reaching up to grip Castiel’s arms, “What did I say about that apologizin’ stuff? And anyway, you do belong. With the circus, and with me… I mean, if you’re still interested.”

Castiel chuckled and leaned in for another kiss “Infuriating.”

“Ahem?” a new voice called. Glancing toward the interruption, Castiel and Dean found Balthazar and Sam waiting at the opposite side of the stairs, and they quickly disentangled from one another to face their siblings.

“I hate to break up this tender reunion,” Balthazar sighed, leaning against the bannister, “but I believe we’ve more than outstayed our welcome, given Cassie’s little scene and all.”

“Not to mention,” Sam added wryly, “As good of a distraction as its been for the two of you, the others aren’t exactly blending in.”

“Oh no,” Balthazar quipped, “It’s perfectly normal for young ladies of society to eat their weight in finger foods and grown men to ask the mayor if he’d like to ‘wrassle.’ Honestly though, boys, may we? Please? I’m not at all keen to witness whatever side of mother’s rage is preparing to rear its ugly head.” Dean smirked, briefly reveling in the notion of Lady Shurley throwing a proper tantrum before tuning his attention back to Castiel.

“Whatta ya say, Cas?” he asked, extending a hand to him, “I can at least promise it’ll always be interesting.” Castiel chuckled, gently shaking his head, and for a moment Dean was struck with the sudden fear that he was still going to be refused in spite of everything, but then he reached out and intertwined their fingers, fixing him with a fond stare.

“I'm with you, Dean,” he said. “Through the interesting and the mundane, for as long as you will have me.” Dean's face split into a wide grin, his heart for once hammering in his chest for all the right reasons, and he leaned toward Cas for another embrace, only to have Balthazar thrust an arm in between them.

“Pack up now, ravish each other later,” he advised, turning his brother around and shoving them toward the stairs, preferably when I'm not within view or earshot.” Reluctantly, Castiel followed the directive, starting back up the stairs that Dean had found him on.

“I'll be right back,” he promised, casting a lingering look over his shoulder before dashing away. 

“I'll be here,” Dean called after him.

“Heavens,” Balthazar groused lightly, “It's almost worse than when the two of you were on the outs.”

“Well,” Sam offered, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “If you’re planning on joining us again, you’re going to have to learn to live with it until at least the end of the season, I mean, unless you’re planning to move in with them.”

“Perish the thought,” Balthazar reprimanded, “Wait, your little circus does well enough that you can pack it in come fall?”

“We have to,” Dean said, tearing his eyes from the stairs, “Don’t know if it matters to you swells, but most people aren’t too keen to take in a show that’s practically outdoors come winter time.” Balthazar frowned thoughtfully, cocking his head to give him an appraising look. 

“What?” Dean asked, his own brow furrowing.

“Have you ever thought of Paris?” he returned vaguely. 

“Uh, as in...In general?” he asked, “I don’t really--” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Castiel return to the upstairs landing, and all Balthazar’s ramblings fell away as he was treated to the sight of the man he loved bounding back to him, his suitcase in hand and a gleam in his eye. There were still things to talk about, discussions they would need to have, and plans they would need to make, but that any of it was now possible at all somehow made it far less daunting. 

“Hello, Dean,” he said once he’d reached the foot of the steps, “Ready?”

“Yeah angel,” he smiled back, “Let’s go home.”


	11. Epilogue

_ Three months later… _

“I can’t believe I let you all talk me into this,” Dean muttered, peeking past the backstage curtain. 

“Dean,” Castiel chided gently, straightening his costume as he came to stand beside him, “You've been working hard on this act and you're going to be amazing-- you  _ are _ amazing.” Though, to an outsider, it may have sounded as if he was simply trying to appease him, but there was nothing short of genuine pride behind his words. In the time since Castiel had come back to the circus and taken on its name, Dean had taken great strides to retool the show and his place in it. It had been hard work, a great deal of which had involved overcoming some of the phobia inspired by his mother's tragic death, and Castiel was in awe of how far his lover had come. 

“It's not that, Cas,” he huffed impatiently, “I know I've got this act backwards and forwards. It's just… You don't think it's too, I don't know, silly? An angel rescuing a righteous man from the underworld?”

“I think it's a lovely story,” Castiel frowned, “Certainly no more convoluted than any of the other performances you've put on.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, “But, what about that sugar-crazed brother of yours? Are you sure he’s up to the ringmaster job?”

“Well, this is his theater after all, and from what I’ve heard, Gabriel is quite the master of ceremonies.”

“But--” Castiel took him by the shoulders, leveling a chastening stare at him.

“You can't shoulder everything, my love,” he said, “though you try. All you need know is that regardless of the strength of the performance’s story, or Gabriel's trial-run as ringmaster, the audience is going to be captivated by all you have to show. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if you were the talk of the town by night's end.”

“Sure,” Dean snorted, “All the city has to offer, and they'll be talkin’ about me,”

“Well, Paris  _ is _ lovely this time of year--

“Oh my God, you people really do say things like that.”

“--But I've yet to see anything half as captivating as you.”

“Flatterer.” Castiel shrugged and crowded closer to him, making it as far as a teasing graze of their lips before they were interrupted.

“What will ultimately be our downfall,” Balthazar hissed from somewhere behind him, “Is all of your ill-timed canoodling. Charlie says our angel should have been in place ages ago, so kindly disengage and get moving.” Sighing, Castiel took a step back, glancing over his shoulder to reassure his brother and finding him already gone.

“Guess it ain’t a bad thing he’s takin’ his place behind the scenes seriously,” Dean muttered.

“Well” Castiel sighed, “In any case he’s not wrong. I’d better get upstairs lest I be the one that spoils your grand debut.” Dean rolled his eyes fondly and pulled him in for a quick kiss, gently shoving him toward his exit once they’d broken apart.

“Go,” he urged, “This doesn’t exactly work without you.” Dean fixed him with meaningful look that told him he meant more than just the performance, and it was all he could do to merely smile at him and start off toward where he belonged. As he ascended to the arena’s second floor to take his position on its hidden trapeze boards, Gabriel began bellowing his introductions from the ringed stage down below.

“Mademoiselles and Monsieurs,” he cried, “Our next performance is a daring tale of bravery and redemption, the story of a man condemned to the deepest pits of the afterlife for the sake of his family only to be gripped tight and raised from perdition by the will of heaven itself.” Castiel smiled from his clandestine starting place as his brother continued weaving his narrative, warmed by the truths that had inspired the play they were about to enact, and even more so the ones it did not include. The reality was, they had fought their way through their own personal hells, battling back the past and it's traumas to rescue themselves and one another. In the end, they had found their way to a heaven all their own, soaring through the air, and beneath the limelight of the circus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks. Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Feel free to say hi on Tumblr (I'm blazeeblake there too), or check out any of my other works on Ao3.


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